


Angel in the Dark

by Thomas



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Fanzine, M/M, Zine, zine fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1996-01-01
Updated: 1996-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-23 11:01:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 103,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13188693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thomas/pseuds/Thomas
Summary: Previously published in fanzine printed format in 1996 by Manacles Press. Summary from the adzine Media Monitor when the zine was first published: "A story of love and the fear of love; of beauty and obsession- 'For Beauty's nothing but the beginning of Terror we can scarcely endure, and we adore it so because it serenely disdains to destroy us. Every angel is terrible'-Rainer Maria Rilke. This is a powerful, dark, and poignant story but be warned, it is not a 'soft' story."





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> © 1996. Artwork © 1995 Suzan Lovett. Angel in the Dark is a non-profit fan-written and fan-illustrated publication and is not intended to infringe on copyrights held by Brian Clemens, ITV, LWT (etc.), or anyone else for that matter. No part or parts of this publication may be reproduced without the express written permission of author or artist. This story contains adult material. 
> 
> Learn more about the original paper fanzine publication history at Fanlore: [Angel in the Dark](https://fanlore.org/wiki/Angel_in_the_Dark)
> 
> This story is written by Thomas and is posted on AO3 with her express written permission. The artist, Suzan Lovett has also granted permission for her atwork to be included. You can learn more about Suzan's art [here](https://fanlore.org/wiki/Suzan_Lovett)  And you can also read Suzan's fanfic [ here on AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suzan_Lovett/pseuds/Suzan_Lovett)

                                                                         

   

 

_Who, if I cried, would hear me among the angelic orders?_

_And even supposing one of them should suddenly press me to his_

_heart, I would expire in the strength of his stronger existence._

_For Beauty's nothing but the beginning of Terror_

_we can scarcely endure, and we adore it so because it serenely_

_disdains to destroy us. Every angel is terrible_ — _._  

—  _Rainer Maria Rilke, Duino Elegies_

 

© 1996. Artwork © 1995 Suzan Lovett. Angel in the Dark is a non-profit fan-written and fan-illustrated publication and is not intended to infringe on copyrights held by Brian Clemens, ITV, LWT (etc.), or anyone else for that matter. No part or parts of this publication may be reproduced without the express written permission of author or artist. This zine contains adult material and will not be sold to anyone under eighteen.

 

 

_Acknowledgements_

Back in the good ol' days, I always believed that the extravagant thanks expressed on the dedication pages of every book I read was just the writer being 'nice.' Now I know better.

The people who say disasters come in threes are engaging in wishful thinking—that a crisis can be so easily predicted. Needless to say there have been many in the course of writing this story and getting it into print, the latest being corrupt computer files (the only copies, naturally).

I want to thank, most extravagantly, everyone who has helped me, because without them, this novel would have never been finished, much less printed. For reading and rereading the thing, providing emotional support for various disasters, and cheering me on when things were going well. In particular, to Lezlie for initially seeing the possibilities of the idea, and for reading every page hot off the computer with an enthusiasm every writer dreams of. To Pamela, for endless hours of story structure assistance and discussion, and for not hating me because of the end. To Renae, for more of the same, as well as being there on the spur of the moment. To Teresa, for making me believe in the characters, and for constant inspiration, and praise well beyond any hopes. To Doris, for reading the story in an early form and helping to clarify the background story. To Sallie, for early proofreading, and support. To Suzan, for her lovely artwork and cover, and for waiting so long for it to see print. To Sharon, Mary Lee and Lois for reading and responding way back when. To Jennifer and Christine for keeping the pressure up. To MFae, Cynthia and Kathy for the last round of heavy proofreading and 'debugging' _(i.e.,_ catching all of the dreaded typos and Americanisms.) To James for the final proofread at the last minute when the document blew up. To all the people out there who kept telling me how much they were looking forward to it. And most of all, to Mary, for suffering through the entire eight years of ups and downs, and for teaching me how to write.

Anything worthwhile in this story is mainly due to my friends. All mistakes are mine.

                                                                                                                                      — Thomas

 

 

_List of Illustrations_

_Frontispiece_  Facing Page

_Passion imprisoned in stone,_

_wanting only a lover’s hand to release it_                                   27

_Bodie watched him all through the night_                                              31

_To hold captive a timeless purity_                                                           42

_A rhythm, like water disturbed, like music in the dark_                           93

_The spider’s ghost trapping the light_                                                 110

_To_ _embrace the stone_                                                                          141

 

 

     

 

 

**May**

I.

 

THE SHRILL OF the telephone splintered through Doyle's dream like a bullet through glass. He sat straight up, grabbing the gun on the bedside table, but the room was dark and empty of any presence save his own. The phone rang again.

Doyle groaned. Not Bodie. Not again.

He let out his breath in a sigh and put the gun aside to grope for the receiver.

"Doyle."

"Hello, sunshine."

"Not so loud, will you?" Doyle said, lifting the handset away from his ear. "Trouble?"

"No. All quiet on the Western front."

"So what d'you want?"

"To talk."

"What? Now?"

"That's right," Bodie said with relentless cheer.

"Christ, Bodie, are you crazy? Do you know what time it is?" He peered at the clock. "Fucking three a.m., that's what time it is."

"Well, can I come round?"

Doyle smothered another groan. The last thing he needed was another of Bodie's pre-dawn fireside chats. He hadn't had a good night's sleep in ages, lying awake for hours staring at nothing, his dreams plagued by an elusive figure he was always chasing, and the closer he got the faster it moved away, maddeningly out of reach. But there was no use asking Bodie to understand, or appealing to his better nature. Bodie didn't have one.

"Well, I'm waiting," the smug voice drawled, and Doyle's irritation soared.

"Forget it, Bodie. Cowley's expecting my sweet face in the morning, and alert, he stressed alert. Sounded none too happy either."

"Aw, come on, Ray, please."

Probably wanted to brag about a new girlfriend, Doyle thought. He tried to harden his heart, but the habit of indulging Bodie's whims was too old to be so easily broken.  Bodie knew it, too, the black-hearted bastard.

"Listen, mate—" he began.

"I have to talk to you," Bodie cut in, his usual bland tones sharpened by an edge of determination. "Won't take long, promise."

Something serious, after all. Doyle frowned. His partner had been a bit off lately. He sighed. Bodie had stood by him through his troubles, flippant, undemonstrative, but there. He supposed he owed him the same, at least.

No one said he had to enjoy it.

"All right," he snapped. "But it better be important."

"It will be," Bodie assured him and rang off.

Doyle glared at the handset for a minute, then tossed it at the phone, but it missed and clattered to the ground. "Oh, bloody hell—" He slid out of bed and put it back on the hook, none too gently. If Bodie started his usual patter about the job, old times, girls, he'd kill him for certain. He looked back at the indentation on the bed where his body had lain so peacefully, and muttered another curse.

He scooped up his jeans from the floor and padded into the bathroom, grumbling to himself all the while. Crazy, that's what he was, stark, staring mad, putting up with this. He flinched as his bare feet struck cold tile. After a brief fumble for the light cord he gave up and felt around for the toilet, listening to make sure he was aiming in the right place.

His sight adapted to the dimness as he pulled on his jeans, then ran his fingers through matted brown curls and splashed some water on his face. He peered at his reflection.

Green eyes stared muzzily back at him, set aslant in a too-pale face; a face whose beauty made no concession to convention. Normally calm and judicious in expression, those eyes lent his clear, strong features a medieval quality, marred only by the rounded chin, which like his character was a peculiar blend of softness and tenacity.

But Doyle was wholly unaware of the impression he created, indeed would have been surprised by it. He saw only the frown lines on his forehead and the hollows in his cheeks. Unshaven, he looked decidedly haggard. "You're going to have to put a stop to this, my son," he told the face. "Those black rings make you look like a raccoon.  Very unattractive."

His reflection blinked.

He stalked into the living room, and went to the window and looked out. The street was as lifeless and empty as his flat. A bluish glow shrouded the entire block, casting the uneven row of buildings and rough pavement as a scene from a silent film.

No sign of Bodie. At the corner, one of the street lamps wavered and went out.

God, it was stuffy tonight. The still air trapped the odor of dust and old carpet; he was sweating. He switched off the alarm, his hand already unfastening the window latch before he caught himself. What the hell was he doing? It was probably safe enough, but a CI5 agent was always a potential target for a fanatic with a gun. No one, no one knew that better than he did. You could never be too careful.

Automatically assessing, his gaze swept the tightly shuttered windows of the converted townhouse opposite. He traced the ridge of scar tissue on his chest with absent fingers. Security, always security. Watch yourself be careful trust no one take no chances never let anyone too close they might kill you...A thousand rules chattered through his mind, hemming him in. The rules he lived by, had to live by, would die without. And what was it all for? Hoping that in the end your actions would be redeemed by your ideals?

Through the glass he could hear the muted roar of night traffic on the M25. London was restless.

Enemies everywhere, and not one friend. Bodie was the closest thing to a friend he had.

That was a chuckle. Bodie didn't have friends. Hidden behind his good-natured veneer, like a door without lock or key, stood a wall no one could break through, not even Doyle. Oh, he'd tried, had stubbornly believed if he was patient Bodie would let down his guard and reveal a core of tenderness missing from his everyday manner, had even thought that Bodie's confidences were a sign of growing trust, only gradually coming to realise that they too were a way of keeping Doyle in his place. No, Bodie was exactly what he seemed, hardhearted and callous towards suffering, intolerant of need and loneliness.

Doyle let the curtains fall back and flopped onto the sofa.

Truth be told, he'd given up hope of friendship years ago, settling for companionship and tacit loyalty, glad enough he could depend on Bodie to watch his back. That was something. Who was he kidding? In their job it was everything.

The door buzzer went in code, two short, one long, so he reached up and pressed the release. Listened for the sound of steps on the stair, satisfied when he heard nothing. He'd always rather admired Bodie's ability to slink around silent as a spirit in the dark despite his bulk. But dark or no, Doyle would've known Bodie's presence anywhere, with an atavistic awareness honed by their profession.

There was a soft click as the lock turned.

"Doyle?"

He sensed a stealthy tread across the carpet, in the direction of the bedroom, made out a shape blocking the light from the window. "I'm over here," he said.

The shape whirled, and Doyle caught the slither of leather and the sheen of steel and knew Bodie's gun was aimed unerringly at his head.

"Bloody idiot," Bodie's voice said. "Don't jump out at me like that."

"I didn't. Haven't moved at all, in fact," Doyle pointed out.

Bodie sighed. "It's a figure of speech, Doyle," he began in his most patronising tone, "and you—"

There was a crack, followed by a thud. "Ow...What the..."

Doyle snickered.

"Why is it I'm always tripping over things around here?" Bodie complained. The sound of his voice receded as he spoke, then the room was flooded with light, tearing a squawk of protest from Doyle.

Bodie smiled, unrepentant. "Sorry, sunshine."

Doyle squinted up at him. Despite the late hour, Bodie appeared immaculate as ever, if a bit pale. Dark eyebrows neatly framed winter-blue eyes, unusually wide and startled as if he'd just come upon some dazzling, unearthly creature.

"I only wanted to shed some light on the subject," Bodie added. He holstered his gun and knelt down, bowing his head. His short, dark hair shone under the light, every glossy strand smoothly in place.

Must be nice, Doyle thought moodily, pushing a straggling curl out of his eyes. On closer inspection, the white shirt was faintly rumpled, the creases in the wrong places on the trousers, and there was dust on the black leather jacket. In fact, those were the same clothes he'd worn to work yesterday. Wonders never ceased, Doyle told himself. At least he wasn't alone in losing sleep.

Bodie raised his head again. "This might seem a strange question, but—" his voice dropped conspiratorially, "Plannin' a tea party for the rats, were you?"

"What?" Doyle glanced at the shard Bodie was pointing at him. "Oh, that." He didn't remember leaving the sugar bowl there, but then it wasn't the first time in the last few months he'd walked off and left something. "Not tea, mate," he said, "Trap. Rat trap."

"Ah, quite." Dusting sugar off his hands, Bodie rose and walked over to the sofa. He ran a clinical glance up and down Doyle's body. "You look lovely tonight, son. You goin' to wear that pair of jeans till they disintegrate?" he asked, tugging at the frayed ends.

"Um." With a pointed yawn, Doyle stretched his arms over his head. Maybe if he kept his mouth shut Bodie would get bored and leave.

He should have known better. Something tickled across the sole of his foot. Before he could brush it off, fingers closed securely around his ankle and Bodie began tickling his foot in earnest.

"Cut it out!" He fought grimly to free himself; in vain. Bodie squeezed tighter, carelessly dodging the kicks aimed at his head, then let go as abruptly as he had started.

"What the hell did you do that for?" Doyle growled at him when he got his breath back.

Bodie shrugged. "You're awake now, aren't you?"

Doyle considered a variety of caustic remarks, discarding them each in turn. He sighed and closed his eyes again. He'd known Bodie too long to be disturbed by his partner's erratic behaviours, although he didn't understand them any better than he had ever done. But he had never quite been able to ignore Bodie completely, the way he deserved. Bodie made himself a perfect nuisance when he wanted something.

He risked a cautious peek from under one eyelid to see what said nuisance was doing. Bodie was simply standing there, gazing down at Doyle with an intent, brooding expression. Doyle felt a shiver run down his back.

As soon as Bodie saw himself observed, his features relaxed into their customary smirk. His eyes, however, remained wary, a bit haunted.

"Got anything to eat?"

Doyle gestured towards the kitchen.

Bodie disappeared through the doorway; re-emerged carrying a can of beer.

"Thought you wanted food."

"Changed my mind, didn't I?"

He prowled around the living room as if he had never seen it before, examining each item of furniture with interest, pausing to read the titles of the books Doyle kept in the shelf by the window.

"What's this, then? Roman myths?" He nodded sagely and put the book back on the shelf. "I thought you went in for poetry, Keats, that sort of thing." Putting a hand to his breast, he struck a pose of lofty grandeur, and declaimed, "O, Bright star, would I were as steadfast as thou art," staring at Doyle all the while.

The prickling of uneasiness returned.   Doyle knew it was irrational, but that stare made him nervous all the same, almost like—like Bodie was staking him out.

Bodie grinned, breaking the spell. He picked up the record on the turntable, flipped it over. "A bit scratched, this, isn't it?" He bent to read the label. "Beethoven's Ninth Symphony."

"Careful with that," Doyle said. "It's an old recording, took me months to track it down."

"Don't you have anything better to do with your time?"

"Sometimes," Doyle said with heavy emphasis, knowing that any explanation would be wasted on Bodie, who was born a philistine and had been losing ground ever since. "Actually," he continued, "sometimes I sleep."

"No," Bodie said in mock surprise. "That a fact?"

Doyle didn't bother to reply. He stretched out on the sofa and closed his eyes, listening apathetically as Bodie rummaged around.

He'd drifted back into his earlier dream, or perhaps a different one, when a sudden quiet alerted him. His eyes flew open. He was alone.

"Bodie!"

"Just coming." Bodie sauntered out of the bedroom with an air of calculated nonchalance.

"What do you want in there? You lose something?"

Bodie shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and leant against the door frame.  "Looking."

"Looking? At what?"

"Nothing. Just curious."

"Curiosity killed the cat, they say."

"Do they?" The corners of Bodie's mouth quirked. "I've been asking myself what you've been getting up to lately; all these early nights, you know."

"Nice of you to take an interest."

"I was worried about you. You haven't been your snotty little self lately. Thought it was a new girlfriend. But then, why bother with girlfriends while you still have a bit of strength in your hands, I always say. Saves time on explanations. Not to mention money, flowers, all that."

"Sod off."

"What's the matter, Raymond, another romance gone sour?"

"Not a bit of it," Doyle said crossly. "Sometimes it's not worth the trouble, is it?"

There was a blackish-brown stain on the ceiling directly overhead. Funny, he'd never noticed it till now. Must've been where the pipes had broken last month.

"Not worth the trouble? Not worth the trouble?" Bodie's voice went up half an octave with disbelief. He snorted. "It's always worth the trouble."

"For you. You don't care how many hearts you break, do you?"

"I do. Got to keep count, you know. Got a log book at home. And it's meticulously filled in, I'll have you know." He pronounced each word with exaggerated care. "Perhaps you'd like to borrow, eh?"

"Not likely." Doyle frowned, trying to decide which the stain more resembled, a spider or a moth.

"Well, never mind. I'm here."

"Thanks."

A moth, it was. Like the big ones that used to cluster around the back door light when he was a kid. He slanted a curious glance at Bodie from under his lashes, found him motionless again, as if waiting for some outside force to animate him.

"Bodie."

Bodie jumped.

"Why are you so nervous?"

"Nervous?"

"Yeah, nervous. As in jittery, jumpy, edgy. You know. Nervous."

Bodie's eyebrows arched into indignant black triangles. "I," he said firmly, "am never nervous. Anyway, that's a bit off the subject, isn't it?"

"Is it?"

"You're being evasive." He rolled the last word around in his mouth as if savouring it. "Come on, tell Uncle Bodie all about it."

"What, so you can tell me not to feel sorry for myself?"

"No."

Like hell, Doyle thought. He'd laid his soul bare to Bodie before and all he ever got was a joke or a lecture on how he ought to put it all behind him and go out, find a girl and have a good time. He put his hands behind his head. "Maybe I'm tired of using people, that's all."

"Or being used?"

"Yeah. Maybe."

Bodie nodded. "That explains it."

"Explains what?"

"Why you've been moping around for weeks—"

"Not moping. Working."

"You're always working—lately."

"Since when did you care?"

"My boy, think of all the fun you're missing." He crossed his arms and laid his cheek against the doorjamb. "The things I could tell you...."

"I heard them all last night, Bodie. And last week. And the week before. In great, gory detail. You didn't get me up at bloody three in the morning to talk about my sex life. Or yours. Again. I hope. For your sake that is."

Bodie's eyes danced wickedly. "Didn't I?"

Doyle jumped up. "That's it. Out." He collared Bodie and dragged him towards the door, anger lending him the strength to stave off the heavier man's struggles.

"OK, all right, I'm sorry—" Bodie finally jerked himself loose and glared at him.

Doyle glared back, panting. He wiped the sweat from his face and said "Goodnight, Bodie."

Bodie straightened his jacket, smoothed his hair down with stiff, brittle dignity. "Jesus, what's got into you lately? Can't even take a joke any more."

"I'm tired, Bodie. Do you understand that? Or do I have to spell it out for you? T-I-R-E-D. Tired. And you," he jabbed his finger into Bodie's chest, "are keeping me from me beauty sleep."

"Waste of time," Bodie commented under his breath.

"Yeah, well, I don't like being got up on some pretext to hear about your latest conquest," Doyle added.

Bodie's expression didn't change, but his lips went white. "I'll be off, then, shall I?"

Doyle was in front of him in a second. "Oh, no, you don't. Not until you spill it."

"I came to talk to you, and all you do is snarl at me."

"Oh, nice. It's all my fault now," Doyle said to the stain on the ceiling. He walked back to the sofa and sat down. "He wakes me up, raids my kitchen, criticises my taste, pries into my sex life, then before he gets ready to stomp off in a huff, accuses me of not being a proper host. It's a complete mystery." He snatched the unopened can of beer from the coffee table and popped the tab.

Bodie remained silent, chin thrust belligerently forward, eyes glinting blue fire in the light.

Doyle sighed. Stiff-necked bastard. He took a swallow of beer and held the can up to Bodie. "Here, have some, mate."

Bodie's gaze travelled around the room and back to Doyle, but finally he accepted the beer, though he didn't sit. He drank deeply and set the can down, shifting the table slightly. "What's this, then?" He knelt to fish out a brown folder from underneath, clicking his tongue in disapproval. "Ah ha, the mystery is solved."

 

Doyle buried his face in his hands. He might as well resign himself to another sleepless night.

Papers rustled softly next Doyle's ear. "See? I was right to worry about you. Bringing work home, very bad." Bodie was silent for a moment, before sighing loudly. "Not this again. Give it up, Ray, it's not our business, this. Not CI5's business, I mean. It's a simple bank robbery."

"That's what I like about it. I know who the villains are, and it's not us."

"It's a job for the local police."

Doyle pondered that for a moment, shook his head. "Could be. Look, it's important to me, right? Leave me alone, it's not your business, either."

"Keep your shirt on," Bodie said indulgently. "I just don't see how it connects to CI5." He grinned and perched himself on the arm of the sofa, crossing one leg over the other. "It's not like we've anything better to do, is it?"

"Where have I heard that before?" Doyle muttered. He stared down at Bodie's foot set firmly on the ground; his shoe wanted polishing, it was scuffed all down the side. "I thought you had to talk to me about something."

"That can wait." Bodie waved his hand in airy dismissal. "Come on, tell me, what's so important, then?"

"Don't know. I can't get an angle on it." Doyle paused, suspicious of Bodie's too-patient expression. He sniffed, caught the tart scent of sweat. Well, his partner was right, it was a crazy notion when the case seemed so cut-and-dried, but his instincts told him he was on to something. He'd puzzled over it for weeks now and he could use some help. Bodie would probably laugh, but what the hell. "Read the D.I.'s notes there." He leant forward to point the heading out. "For a 'simple' robbery, they had some pretty heavy artillery. And the whole thing came off in about ten minutes. Beautifully planned, a clean get-away. 3ut the two tellers were murdered for no reason, report says they didn't struggle, didn't put up a fight, nothing. Doesn't add up."

"So what? That still doesn't make it our problem."

"Two people died, Bodie."

"Someone's always dying somewhere."

"Yeah, yeah, sure." Doyle pulled away. "CI5 rule #3. Compassion is a luxury. One you wouldn't buy even if you could afford it."

There was a pause, then Bodie laid the file aside. "Well, never come between a man and his conscience, I always say."

"Some conscience."

"Eh?"

"People dying for no reason, I should care, right? And I don't, not much. Used to be, someone died, it hurt me. Here." He thumped his chest, hard. "And now, nothing. Another faceless life sacrificed to the cause of justice. I might as well be dead m'self." He punctuated each word with a thump.

Bodie grabbed his wrists. "If you don't care, why are you worrying?  Seems to me you should be happy."

"You wouldn't understand."

"I might. Just because you say so doesn't mean I wouldn't."

"Oh, right." Doyle yanked himself free. "Drop it, Bodie."

"Ray—"

"Leave it, just drop it, I told you—"

"I'm not going to drop it—"

"—to drop it—"

"—until you at least tell me what's going on—"

"—before I drop you."

Bodie smiled. "Like to see you try."

Doyle rolled his eyes, praying for patience. If Bodie thought to pick another fight he could think again. He slumped back on the sofa, sick to death of the whole bloody business.

"You're crazy, you know," Bodie remarked.

"Look who's talking."

Bodie put his hands on his knees and glared at him coldly, but didn't press the point. He shrugged. "What the hell, something to do. Gives you a purpose in life, and all that."

Doyle kept quiet, distrustful, but the mockery he expected was not forthcoming.

Instead, Bodie got up and went to the window, lifted the curtain and peered out. "Things aren't the same any more, are they?" he said after a while. "The job, I mean."

"S'pose not," Doyle agreed cautiously.

Bodie stood quite still for several minutes, his image reflected against the glass by the lamplight.

"I can't stand it much longer, Ray—" His voice cracked.

He threw the curtain at the window and turned, giving Doyle a fleeting glimpse into shadowed eyes, where something clawed away inside.

Compassion welled up in him for the soul locked up behind those eyes, and curiosity stirred, too, as Bodie stalked past him, every line of his body radiating a certain tension, some intense emotion held rigidly under control.

"All right, Bodie, last chance. You going to tell me what's on your mind, or what?"

No reply. When he turned to face Doyle he appeared entirely at ease, smiling cheerfully again, leaving Doyle to wonder if he had imagined it all.

"Let's hear it, then," Bodie said after a minute.

"Hear what?"

"Your Beethoven whatever it is."

The shadows dispersed, replaced by a fever-bright sparkle.

Doyle glanced at the wall clock. "Bodie. It's four-fifteen, Bodie," he said reasonably. Quite reasonably, he thought, considering his nerves were frazzled to the breaking point. "I have to be in Cowley's office at eight am sharp. Now for chrissakes will you tell me what you want?"

"OK. Right." Bodie walked round the back of the sofa and knelt down, carefully balancing the beer can on the back rest. "Advice, that's it. I wanted some advice."

"Can't quite sort it all out..." his voice trailed off, his expression lighting with secret speculation. He leant over so close the lingering scent of cologne drifted into Doyle's nostrils. "You know," he said, "you have beautiful eyes."

Doyle blinked, felt his heart give an odd little jerk. What was Bodie on about? It occurred to him that Bodie was not, after all, just following a whim of his mercurial temperament, but beyond that his thoughts did not reach. "Advice?" he prompted.

"Yeah, but I guess you've given up on that sort of thing." To Doyle's relief, he withdrew to a safer distance.

"Knock off the self-pity, Bodie, it's not your style."

Bodie spared him a brief scowl. "I'm thinking about packing it in. You know, resigning."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Bodie returned to the window, looked out again, circled back and sat on the other end of the sofa. "And I wondered, what you would think about that."

"What brings this on?"

"Oh, I don't know. Bored with it all, I s'pose."

Doyle propped himself up on his elbows and studied him. Curiouser all the time. Bodie had threatened to resign before, but Doyle, who fancied he knew Bodie as well as anyone could, heard more in the casual words than mere boredom.

Oblivious, Bodie fidgeted obsessively with the beer can.

"You're not being troubled by conscience at this late date, are you?" Doyle asked him when he could stand it no longer.

"Nah. Not me, mate. I'll leave that to you, shall I?" He smiled briefly and took another drink.

The room was silent for a time as Bodie directed a morose stare at the can and Doyle watched him. But Bodie seemed to have nothing more to say, even seemed to have forgot where he was. To hell with him, Doyle thought finally. He was going back to bed and to sleep whether Bodie stayed or went. He sat up.

"Ray?"

"Yeah?"

"Been thinking—"

"I wouldn't do that if I were you. Look where it's got me. Besides, don't want to crease that handsome face with worry lines, do you?"

Bodie acknowledged the gibe with the barest flicker of an eyelash. "I haven't been having too much luck with the ladies lately, either."

"Go on, I don't believe that."

"'S true. So," he shrugged, "I thought I could stay here tonight."

"You won't find this sofa very comfortable."

"Wasn't planning to sleep there."

He finished off the beer and began, methodically and deliberately, to crush the can.

The hairs rose on the back of Doyle's neck. He didn't like the way Bodie was looking at him, not one bit. "You plannin' on sharin' with me, sunshine, is that it?"

Bodie heaved a sigh of relief.  "That's it."

Doyle rose to his feet in one fluid motion. "OK. Anything you say." He headed for the bedroom. "You coming?" he said over his shoulder.

Bodie rose as well. "Wait a minute, I don't think you understand."

"Too right, mate," Doyle said with a snort. "So, why don't you explain it to me?"

Bodie, perversely, said nothing.

Doyle crossed his arms and waited.

Bodie said nothing.

Doyle advanced slowly on him, with murderous intent. "Bodie," he said, voice deceptively soft.

"Yeah?"

"WHAT THE HELL DO YOU WANT?"

Bodie didn't flinch at all, letting Doyle's shout fade into silence.

It was the last straw. He reached out to grab Bodie and eject him, this time for good, when Bodie finally spoke.

"You."

 

**II.**

DOYLE FROZE, arm in mid-air. "What?"

"Oh, come on, you know what I'm tryin' to say."

"You're suggesting you and me..."

"...having it off."

Doyle stared up at him, lowering his arm to his side. "Oh," he said. Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed the shattered sugar bowl.

"Well, what d'you say?"

Doyle looked down at his bare feet, then back to Bodie. "You're not serious."

Bodie nodded.

"And this just occurred to you? An inspiration from heaven? Bolt from the blue, so to speak?"

Bodie nodded happily at each question.

"I've had more elegant offers," Doyle said.

"Then it's all right?"

"No way."

"Oh, come on.  Why not?"

"Well, you're a man for one. And for two and three and four," he added. "You're my partner, for godsakes, I see you every day!"

Bodie nodded again, as if he hadn't thought of it quite that way.

"And, well..." Doyle paused. "This is bloody ridiculous." Sweat itched down his back. Irrelevantly, he wished his flat were as draughty as Bodie's.

He searched the other man's face, found no clue to his thoughts. It was one of Bodie's more bizarre practical jokes. Had to be. He snickered. "Of course. We'll go tripping into Cowley's office in the morning and tell him we need extended leave. The honeymoon, sir, and then of course, time to set up housekeeping when we get back. And the old man'll smile benignly and say, why of course, you two lads run along. I'll be seeing you when you get back. I hope you'll be very happy."

Bodie made a pained face. "Nah. He'll insist on presiding himself, giving me away. He always did fancy himself father of the bride."

Laughing in earnest now, Doyle fell back on the sofa. "Oh, that's good, that is. You really had me going there, mate."

"I'm not joking."

Doyle's laughter died. "You've gone round the twist."

"What d'you say?"

"Bodie— Come on, Bodie, it's gone past a joke."

"I told you, it's no joke."

"Sony, mate. I never sleep with anyone crazier than meself."

That wasn't at all what he'd meant to say. A strange, cold excitement crept upwards through his body until even his lips were cold.

"Why not?"

"Why?" Doyle countered.

Bodie frowned, his eyebrows went up, a flash of bewilderment in his eyes. "I don't know." His mouth twitched a little, then curved crookedly at the corners. "Why not?" he repeated, as though this explained everything.

Why not? Doyle got up and walked round the back of the sofa. He hooked his thumbs in his rear pockets and rocked back on his heels. He was sure there were thousands of reasons, good reasons, though at the moment he couldn't dredge up a single one.

He felt rather than heard Bodie come up behind him. Bodie's voice skimmed the surface of his mind, a low resonant urgency. "Come on. You'll like it, I know you will, I'll make sure of it. Honest. I promise."

Doyle turned and covered Bodie's mouth. "Shut up, will you? I'm tryin' to think." He tried to summon the irritation that had been with him all night, but it too was gone as if it had never been, and all he could feel was a shiver deep in his belly.

"Oh, c'mon, Ray. Please."

The words sounded so tender and pleading it did not seem Bodie's voice at all. Doyle gazed up at him, fascinated. Stripped of its usual arrogance, Bodie's face had gone paper-white, eyes blazing like sapphires under soot-black lashes, cheek muscles taut, trembling with the effort to control.

It hurt Doyle to look at him.

It was too much to bear, he wanted to escape, every instinct screaming a warning, but there was nowhere to go.

Why not? What could it hurt? He'd seen it all, done it all; what was one more thing? He reckoned Bodie, at least, had some reason for all this; and the idea didn't put him off, he realised, surprised at himself. Anyway, you couldn't play it safe all the time.

He laughed chokily. "Yeah, ok," he heard himself saying. "Why not?"

Bodie didn't react at first. Then his eyes narrowed. "OK? Just like that?"

Doyle shrugged. "Yeah."

"No analysis, no explanations, no worrying about the significance of it all?"

"What do you want, Bodie, Christ, there's no pleasing you is there? Just get to it, will you?"

Bodie caught his hand and lifted it to his cheek, rubbing his face against Doyle's fingertips as though to convince himself of their solidity.

Doyle felt fear snaking through his guts, coiling down through his groin, and, absurdly, the first faint pulse of arousal. "Well, do something."

"I'm workin' on it, I'm workin' on it. Don't push me," Bodie said. Gingerly, he put his hands on Doyle's shoulders. "Always forget how small you are."

"If you're goin' to insult me, you can leave."

Bodie grinned briefly at that, and shook his head. He stared down at Doyle, the grin vanished into a frown of fierce concentration. He took a deep breath and inched closer, until his body pressed into Doyle's, and warm breath whispered across Doyle's face. "Christ—'s not how I thought it would be. Let me...Let me try kissin' you first."

Obligingly, Doyle tilted his face upwards and closed his eyes, stifling the nervous giggle rising in his throat.

Lips grazed his cheekbone, dry and cool, then retreated, whisking across his forehead, and touched his own at last.

Something bumped his nose, and Doyle opened his eyes to see a blue haze. "Sorry," Bodie said. Then his lashes fluttered closed. "I'm a bit nervous, y'know?"

"Yeah." Doyle slid his hands over the buttons of Bodie's jacket, inside and up under his arms.

"All right?" Bodie said softly.

Doyle nodded.

With a sigh, Bodie bent his head again and settled his mouth on his.

Doyle began to shake, but he didn't pull back, determined to give it a go. Bodie's mouth warmed quickly, softened as he drew back slightly and pressed his lips to Doyle's again, over and over, until Doyle let his jaw muscles go slack, and Bodie's tongue slipped inside, running over his teeth.

His heart slammed into his ribs, so hard he lost his breath, whether in fear or desire he didn't know, but ever with a mind of its own, his cock stirred, throbbing against his thigh.

As if sensing an advantage, Bodie brought his thigh up and pressed it against Doyle's crotch. Doyle gasped, and Bodie took advantage of that, too, kissing him harder, with punishing sweetness, tongue invading his mouth and scent of aftershave and musk conquering his senses until he was pushing back against Bodie and his chest was plastered to Bodie's jacket.

Bodie pulled back, breath coming in great ragged pants, pupils dilated so wide the blue was nearly lost in black. "You... Don't know if I can stand it."

Doyle found that he, too, had difficulty breathing. He had not bargained on the treacherous onslaught of emotion that stuck in his throat and weakened his knees. He tapped Bodie's chest.

"Gotta go," he said thickly.

"Wha—"

"The jacket 's gotta go." The leather made a small smacking sound as he peeled his body away.

Bodie shrugged out of the jacket, folded it neatly in half and laid it across the backrest of the sofa. After a second he knelt and removed his shoes as well.

He rose again, then took off his watch, stowing it carefully in a jacket pocket.

Doyle folded his arms and watched all of this with growing impatience. At the rate Bodie was moving, it'd be daylight before he got his clothes off.

"Do you know what you're doing?" he asked.

"Nope," Bodie said cheerfully.

"Here, let me." He unbuttoned Bodie's shirt with impersonal efficiency, ignoring the questioning gaze upon him. He didn't feel up to true confessions just now.

He slid the shirt from Bodie's shoulders, and tossed it aside, then busied himself tugging Bodie's T-shirt loose from his trousers. "Lift your arms up," he ordered. "Why, in the middle of a heat wave, are you wearin' all these clothes?"

An aggrieved expression on his face, Bodie complied. "Because sometimes—" his words were muffled by the shirt across his face, "—I get cold," he finished.

Doyle pulled the shirt away and sent it to join the first one, noting with secret amusement Bodie's involuntary glance in the direction his shirt had gone, the obvious effort to hide his chagrin at the cavalier treatment afforded his clothing.

"That's more like it," Doyle said, and closed the gap between them.

Bodie shivered and closed his eyes.

Daringly, Doyle touched him, smoothing his hands across the broad sweep of shoulder, slowly, expecting a rebuff any second. Except for the odd wrestling match, Bodie never permitted him more than the lightest of pats. Doyle remembered laying a companionable arm across his shoulders once, and winding up on the ground for his trouble. After that he'd kept his distance.

He laid his hands on Bodie's chest, spread wide, and brushed his thumbs across hardened nipples—cold? He wondered, and traced the curve into the soft hair under

Bodie's arms.

Blue-green veins crisscrossed under his collarbone, spidered towards the heart. Doyle pressed his lips to that spot, feeling the skin warm in response. He inhaled the sharp scent of soap.

Bodie growled deep in his throat and grabbed him, straining close, all his muscles tensing against Doyle's. Doyle struggled to break the iron grip. Failing that, he bit down on the arm mashing his face. Not hard, but hard enough to wring a plaintive yelp from Bodie, who jumped back like he'd been shocked. "What you do that for?"

"Because you—oh, never mind." Bodie looked so wounded Doyle hadn't the heart to deliver the cutting words that sprang to mind.

Instead, he slid his fingers over Bodie's ears and through his hair, drew Bodie's face down to kiss him. He smothered any reply Bodie might have made by searching his mouth gently with his tongue, irrationally pleased at Bodie's allowing him to do this.

His erection had subsided, but now it stirred again, bound to his thigh by the tight jeans. He squirmed, trying to make it shift upwards.

Bodie's arms slid around his waist and pulled him closer. Doyle tensed.

"If you want to stop, just say the word," Bodie snapped.

Doyle groaned, partly in frustration, partly in response to the desire jolting through his body. He took a deep, hissing breath. "Go on," he said through clenched teeth and gave Bodie a shove. "Let's go to bed."

Bodie didn't budge. "I'll not have you feeling sorry for me."

In answer, Doyle flicked open the snap of his jeans and undid the zip, freeing his shaft to leap forward in mid-air. And smiled. "Pity doesn't give me a hard-on, Bodie."

A flip of the wrist sent his jeans to the floor. He kicked them off, made a small gesture with his hand inviting Bodie to do the same.

Doyle's body, as if he could somehow burn the image whole into his mind and thereby preserve and keep it.

"C'mon," Doyle said, uncomfortable under the intense scrutiny. He grabbed Bodie's belt and tugged. Bodie gave no sign of noticing.

Doyle unbuckled the belt, doubts resurfacing about the wisdom of the whole thing. He needed to sleep sometime—Cowley would have his hide if he were late again tomorrow. Christ, the old man would love this—and what if it went wrong? Yet the prospect of actually penetrating to the cool heart of the other man lured him on; like the moths at the back door light.

He finished undressing Bodie without a word, throwing the rest of his clothes in the direction of the shirt, and stood facing him, hesitating. Bodie might have been carved from marble, so still was he, only his eyes betraying his passion, a stillness so complete and perfect, it sent a shiver down Doyle's spine.

"You sure you want to do this?" he grumbled.

He took a deep breath and placed his hand on Bodie's bare hip, slid his palm up over the bone into the soft curve of his belly, and felt what it must feel like to touch a wild animal: a shock of delight.

Bodie came to life at last, covering Doyle's hand with his own and guiding it down until it rested on the harder curve of his cock. He smiled, a sweet, inflexible smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"I'm sure."

Doyle caught his breath. He forgot about sleep, about wisdom, and about moths, riveted by the chill gaze that held his with inexorable tenderness and promised—Doyle didn't know what it promised.

He inched closer, needing to see more, to go further, but he sank into limitless blue depths. In blind obedience to some wayward inner voice, he let his fingers explore warm hard flesh, eerily certain he was sparking all the secret nerves, the knowledge flooding his veins like a thick hot liquid.

The smug, jocular man he had known was gone, replaced by a mysterious stranger. A stranger who was at once dangerous and vulnerable: an exotic mixture that conjured memories of the first time he and Bodie were in a shoot-out together. Now, as then, he felt his stomach churning, his thoughts speeding with beautiful clarity, outdistancing light; the sound of his blood in his ears singing a counterpoint to the instantaneous response of body to mind; the single, intense focus on every movement where one mistake meant instant death. And the heady gush of relief when it was all over, and they had won: the revelation when their eyes met that Bodie had felt the same, exactly the same.

And as Bodie's fingertips played with the fine hairs on the back of his hand, there followed the truly exotic idea that they might have more in common than work and occasional evenings on the town. With all these strange thoughts wandering in and out of his head, Doyle knelt down as in a dream, and took Bodie's cock in his mouth.

From far away he heard a groan of surprise, a voice softly protesting, "I didn't mean...You don't have to..." The sounds made no sense. He let his tongue flicker lightly across the soft skin, gliding down until the shaft was slicked with his saliva, and began the slow rhythmic sucking that he himself loved so well.

Bodie clutched the back of his head, pulling his hair tightly against his scalp. Encouraged, he steadied his hands on Bodie's thighs and sucked harder.

Doyle judged himself fairly proficient in sexual matters, even this one. He'd taught a lot of women how to go about it, even done it himself a couple of times in a wanton, misspent youth, to find out how the other half lives, but only now did he begin to understand the power of the act.

The heat of Bodie swelling in his mouth, the tiny incoherent sounds Bodie made every few seconds, the gentle grip on his hair, spoke more eloquently to him of the implicit trust and intimacy between them than any words could have done.

And with memory and imagination feeding him every sensation Bodie was feeling, and flashes of a dark head bent over him, stubborn pouting mouth drawing him in—the whole thing turned him on like nothing he'd ever before experienced.

Untouched, his own cock twitched and throbbed hopefully with each plunge of his mouth down the slippery length of Bodie's. His mind raced with pictures of how they would look to an observer, Bodie's sturdy, powerful physique posed like a statue, and his own leaner, muscular frame splayed before him, thick tangle of hair swaying as he moved, fingers spread across the smooth expanse of thigh, digging deep as he forced Bodie's hips to match the pace set by his mouth.

His hips arched to press his aching shaft against one strong leg, into the knot of muscles round the knee, and he felt another shock as it brushed soft hair over roughened skin.

Eventually, however, he had to pull back, trading hands for mouth, his jaw sore from the strain.

Bodie made an inarticulate protest, silenced when Doyle continued to stroke him.  He rubbed his thumb across the tip to couple the moisture there with that left behind from his mouth, and looked up the length of Bodie's body.

He had always been immune to Bodie's blatant good looks, preferring a more delicate, ethereal prettiness. Bodie was too aggressively masculine to have much  
appeal.   But he was rather beautiful now, head tipped back, lost in his own sexual ecstasy.

Sweat pearled across his chest and belly, both trembling with inheld breath, and his skin was flushed faintly pink from the heat. Must remember to buy a fan next time he went to the shops, Doyle thought mistily.

His fingers slowed, then stilled.

Bodie glanced down, lids half-closed so all Doyle could see was a gleam of blue under the black line of lashes. "Don't stop now," he drawled, "Was just gettin' close—" He lifted Doyle's chin and gazed into his eyes. "Though I reckon it doesn't matter," he added, hoarse as if a hand was at his throat. "If you keep lookin' at me like that, I'll come so hard it'll kill me."

Doyle blinked, returned his attention to the satin flesh nudging his cheek. A single drop of fluid shone at the tip. He licked it.

With a groan, Bodie thrust forward and Doyle barely got his mouth around him in time to catch the sudden outpouring.  He  swallowed  convulsively,  made a face—forgot how bitter semen could taste—waiting until Bodie was still again to let the rest leak from his mouth, finally releasing him and burying his face in the hard muscle of Bodie's thigh.

Next thing he knew, strong hands slid into his armpits and raised him up to his feet.

Bodie grinned impishly down. "But I'll die happy." He put his arms around Doyle's waist and kissed him, soft, wet, intense.

Doyle clung to him in a kind of relief, his knees shaking from having been cramped in one position for too long.   He felt dizzy and lost, as if he'd stepped through a door into space.

It was strange, unreal, to have Bodie's tongue dreamily exploring his teeth, his inner lip, moist and cool. And the warmth of arms holding him, the press of skin against skin after so many nights alone stole from him all his remaining energy. Bodie's lips quivered a little against his. "Sweet," Bodie whispered, the word merging into another kiss, and Doyle was lifted a few inches from the ground, and carried like that into the bedroom, Bodie turning round and round as he walked until Doyle was giddy with it.

Every sense swimming, he did no more than sigh when Bodie laid him back onto the bed. His lids drooped. "Hot," he mumbled.

The sheets rustled, and a cooling stream of breath blew down his chest, drying sweat, then fluttered across his erection. He shuddered pleasurably. He felt the bed dip as Bodie sat next to him. Doyle sighed again, deeply, breathing in the fragrance of his body. He could sense Bodie studying him again, as he had been all evening—well, let him—Doyle stretched slowly and relaxed further into the pillows, unwilling just yet to emerge from his comfortable lethargy despite the increasing urging of his body. His thoughts still danced with images, fragmented now, of what he had done, of what he might expect in return— He opened his eyes wide, but the room was dark except for a faint glow through the doorway. His cock gave an involuntary twitch as he realised the betraying lamp shone directly upon him and left him completely exposed. "You goin' to sit there and look at me all night?" he said; conscious suddenly of his aroused state as never before in his life.

Hesitant fingers explored his chest in a zig-zag, came to rest on his belly. Doyle smiled indulgently. "Goin' all coy on me?"

"No, I just—"

"What?"

"Why're you doin' this?"

Doyle half-sat up at that. Thoughtful, he considered Bodie's fingers making patterns across his stomach. "Don't miss a trick, you don't."

"Yeah."

The fingers brushed his cock, delicately mapped swollen, sensitive skin. Doyle fell back into the pillows with a whimper. "Yeah," he managed, "like that."

He lifted his hips, striving to push himself into the tempting hand. Bodie squeezed once, then his hand slipped away.

"Stop teasing, Bodie, come on."

There was a thump as Bodie slid to the floor, his form imperfectly illuminated by the meagre light.

Doyle strained to make out his features, but the light hindered his vision, masking the face in shadow. He caught the merest glitter as Bodie's gaze swept over him like an arctic wind, crystallising his desire, making his entire body ache and burn for the release of touch. "Come back here," he ordered softly.

Bodie bent towards him until his eyes, too, were eclipsed by the shadows, dark and barren as an empty grave. Faceless and silent, he came closer until warm breath caressed Doyle's forehead, floated down his cheekbone and lingered there.

Doyle reached for the bedside lamp.

A hand clamped around his wrist.

"I want to see you."

"You know what I look like."

He tried to touch Bodie's face, but Bodie faded from his grasp. He lifted his head for a kiss, but Bodie drew back, stayed just out of reach.

He lay still and helpless then, and stared at the ghostly shape beside him, for he could not hold him or possess him and he did not know what Bodie would do to him. Bodie let go his wrist and he was slipping, falling into darkness.

"Bodie?"

Bodie's fingers laced through his, and he bent close again. "I'm here."

The words floated up and surrounded Doyle like steam. His fears receded into the whisper of their combined breathing, Bodie's strong and even, his own fast, staccato. Then Bodie bowed his head, brought Doyle's palm up to place a swift, burning kiss in the very centre, and Doyle slipped again, dragged down by the weird and awful impression that he indeed saw Bodie quite clearly, too clearly, as though they stood face to face under the blaze of a midday sun.

Bodie was silent, tense; his fingers gripped Doyle's mercilessly. But his eyes were worlds and through them Doyle saw into all the places Bodie protected and understood all things Bodie wasn't saying, and the knowledge reassured and terrified and excited him all at once.

He blinked and turned his head aside.

As if through gauze, he perceived the outline of his chest of drawers, as if through tears watched it blur and reform.  His mind was playing tricks on him.

Nothing, it was nothing, he'd got high from breathing Bodie's breath, that's all.

The strange feelings evaporated, left behind only an echoing warmth in his guts. He slipped his arms around Bodie's neck, pulled him closer. "Gonna kiss me or what?" he asked; his voice scarcely shook at all.

Bodie's mouth touched his, too briefly. "'S matter?"

"Nothing. I don't know." Bodie stood, and seconds later Doyle heard the door close.

Before he could sit up Bodie was there, settling heavily on top of him, pushing him down into the bed.

The heat had got to Bodie at last, Doyle noted hazily, as his hyper-sensitive nerves registered the shock of sweat-slicked skin all around him, smooth and cool on his overheated flesh. He felt himself painfully hard between the moist welcome of Bodie's stomach, the rippling tenseness of his own, so that every intake of breath shot fire through him. Bodie shifted his weight, shoved him almost over the brink; not quite enough.

He squirmed.

"Don't move," Bodie said.

"Want to, for godsakes Bodie," Doyle said in a croaky whisper, eyes screwed shut, desperate for the sweet relief only friction could bring.

"No."

"C'mon, let me—"

Bodie clapped a hand over his mouth. "Shh. Don't talk." He put his other hand on Doyle's shoulder and levered himself up. Doyle dug his fingers into Bodie's back and hauled him down, nipping at Bodie's hand.

"Cannibal," Bodie complained. "What am I going to do with you?"

"Make me come," Doyle said fervently, "Please, Bodie," and he tried to thrust, but Bodie held him down and kissed him until he stopped struggling.

Breathless from being kissed, he gave up and let sensation wash over him, the feel of another body wrapped around his, a pleasure sharply focused by the urgent throbbing of his cock against Bodie's belly.

Warm lips touched his eyelids.

"Hey, sunshine, look at me."

Doyle lifted his lids and smiled languidly.

Bodie's eyes widened, his lips parted, but he didn't smile back. "Ah," a wordless cry, and he buried his face in Doyle's hair and pressed against him, trembling under Doyle's hands. He seemed overcome with some terror— Terror? No way. Not Bodie.

"That's torn it," Bodie said into his throat.

Doyle tried and failed to make sense out of that; he was too far gone to think any more. "Bodie?"

"All right, 's ok." And Bodie moved, slid forward, and back, slowly, until Doyle sighed and moved with him. After the long denial it was in the end so easy, sweetness buoying and filling him up, he wanted to cry and whisper encouragement, but Bodie's mouth was there, drinking in his cries when he spilled over, his seed flowing from him like rain from a cloud. He drifted down from the peak of pleasure, and opened his eyes to find Bodie gazing down at him. "See," he said, "Told you you'd like it, didn't I?"

"Yeah," Doyle agreed.  "You did."

A smile lit across Bodie's features, exultant and tender and smug mixed together. Doyle's heart did a somersault. "That grin is positively moronic," he said gruffly.  "Too bad the lads can't see you now."

"Yeah? How' bout this then?" Bodie said, crossing his eyes.

"Always knew you belonged in a home for mental defectives."

Bodie leant back on his elbows. He regarded Doyle steadily, solemn as one who has discharged a sacred duty. "Come over here," he said after minute.

"What for?"

"All right, I'll come to you."

He turned on his side and curled his arm across Doyle's chest. Without thinking, Doyle hugged him closer.

"You need a bath," Bodie said, muffled.

"Mm." The bedroom window shimmered with the first streaks of dawn. Doyle looked over at the clock. 5.48. Bloody hell, he was tired.  With a contented sigh, he closed his eyes, let sleep take him...

"Ray?"

"What now?"

"I would do anything for you, you know that."

"How about letting me get some sleep, then?" Doyle replied groggily.

Bodie sighed his own little sigh, and didn't answer.

 

III.

 

THE NEXT TIME Doyle opened his eyes, sunlight streamed through the window and the room was unbearably hot. He sat up and looked around, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He was alone.

He wondered if it had all been some kind of surrealistic wet dream, when his glance fell on the clock. He leapt from the bed and ran to the bathroom. No time for a bath, just a quick rinse and a shave—goddammit, he'd cut himself, cursing on and on as he hustled back to the bedroom, accidentally dumping a whole drawer in his haste to find a clean pair of jeans, then had to dig through the pile to get at the holster buried underneath. He dressed in record time, snatched his gun and keys from the bedside table, and sprinted through the front door. But he had to go back—he'd left the file in the sitting room; he grabbed it, slowing down only to check the door was securely locked—fortunately the bottom door latched by itself—and broke every traffic law he could remember getting to the baroque brownstone that currently housed the CI5 offices.

The drab antique facade was misleading. Twenty feet beyond the plain wooden doors was an electronic security gate system installed two years previous, one of Cowley's pet projects. Despite the secrecy and mobility of its location, CI5 had proved all too vulnerable to a determined saboteur, and another bomb scare had given Cowley leverage to get his funding. No one got in or out any more without proper authorisation. All very modern and efficient. Doyle hated it.

He entered his code and the outer door slid open long enough to let him through, then clanged shut. He stepped up to the main door, pulling out his wallet—christ, he'd forgot his access card again. The guard sat pillar-like inside a glassed-in booth as if he were part of the machinery.

Doyle rapped on the window to get the man's attention. He endured a frown of disapproval and held up his ID. In the old days the guard would have grinned and shaken a finger at him, written up a temporary pass and sent him on his way. Now he had to wait for central computer to pull his file, update it, and transmit a clearance to the guard. Might be here another fifteen minutes. He used the time to collect his scattered wits.

Damned odd it was, Bodie disappearing like that. He usually slept the sleep of the dead, grunting and groaning when woken like he was being tortured. Though it saved a lot of bloody awkwardness. He had no idea of what he would have said to Bodie, but he was annoyed anyway.

Surprisingly, a few moments later the main doors beeped and opened. The guard motioned him on.

Anson passed him on the stairs. "Weapons check at half-past three, 4/5," he said.

"OK," Doyle responded automatically, still thinking. On the empty landing, a cloud of smoke hung in the air like an errant genie.

He stopped in the computer room, spotted Cowley's secretary. "Psst, Betty," he said, pitching his voice to carry over the clacking printers.

She looked up, recognised him, and frowned a little. "What do you want?"

He smiled his most charming smile and untucked the file from under his arm. "Get this back to Records for me, there's a good girl."

"Before Cowley finds out you've got it?"

Spreading his hands, he made himself the picture of innocence, admiring the pretty mouth twisted in exasperation. "Don't want to upset him, now do we?" he said.

She sighed and snatched the file from him.

"Thanks, love. Return the favour sometime." He winked at her and went on towards Cowley's office, listening to his shoes squeak on the freshly waxed floor.

Not that anything would help these floors much, he thought. The wax only accentuated the dingy, yellowed lino.

He rounded the corner, having seen no one else in the unusually silent corridors, and he began to ask himself if he wasn't still dreaming.

He had about decided that Bodie himself was part of the dream, a figment of some malevolent corner of his mind, when the door to Cowley's office banged open and Bodie was there, vividly there, more real than real. Doyle grinned up at him, his unruly heart beginning to race.

Bodie eyed him as coolly as any stranger might have done, then gave him a curt nod and elbowed him aside.

Doyle watched him stomp down the corridor, annoyance flaring into anger. OK, he wasn't expecting hearts and flowers, but Jesus, 'Good morning,' would have been nice.

Cowley appeared in the door, a little wild-eyed, Doyle thought, and muttered something under his breath.

"What's with him?" Doyle asked.

"He wants to sell his soul. Trouble is, he forgot where he hid it." Cowley sent an icy glare in the direction Bodie had gone, then slammed the door hard enough to rattle the glass in the window. He transferred his glare to Doyle. "And so have you, by the look of it."

Doyle glanced down, realised he'd put his shirt on inside out, and stifled a groan.

Pivoting precisely on his heel, Cowley marched over to his desk and sat down. When he spoke, his voice had regained the chill asperity Doyle was intimately familiar with. "You're late, 4/5."

"Yes, sir." Doyle knew better than to argue when the CI5 controller was in this mood.

"Any reason in particular, or is it just part of the general sloppy attitude you've been displaying lately?"

Ought to tell him, Doyle thought with vicious amusement, like to see the look on his face— "No, sir. No particular reason."

He tilted his head to one side and considered Cowley's dark red tie, the lone spot of colour in the whole office. The harsh fluorescent light killed all shadow and made everything else look beige, even Cowley himself, with his plain brown suit, white shirt and sandy hair.

Doyle had never liked beige.

Cowley got up and walked over to the window, hands in pockets. He stood with his back to Doyle, seemingly examining the dusty blinds. "Have a seat, Doyle," he said.

Doyle cleared some papers off the wooden chair next to the desk and sat down.

Cowley ran a finger across one slat, then blew on it and looked at Doyle through the small flurry of dust. "You've been with CI5 how long? Twelve years, is it?"

Uneasiness rose in Doyle; and suspicion. Cowley was up to something. "Twelve years, four months, and some-odd days."

The dust motes captured the light from above, sparkled onto the floor. Finally Cowley spoke again. "Nine new agents begin orientation in two weeks."

"Nine?"

"Yes, nine. We lost four men last winter, or had you forgotten?"

Lost. Nice way of putting it, when three of them had been blown to bits by a visiting PLO bomber and the fourth invalided out on a psychiatric discharge. Doyle's lip curled into a sneer. "So CI5 needs more cannon fodder."

"I've scheduled you to conduct classroom training in interrogation and follow-up starting in two weeks," Cowley continued as if he hadn't heard.

"Classes? Now wait a minute—"

"You're perfectly qualified to teach what you know." He inspected Doyle disdainfully over the black rims of his eyeglasses. "Perhaps you could do with a refresher course yourself."

"Yeah," Doyle said. He remembered his first interview with Cowley, and the conscientious young man, who, along with his qualifications, had spilled out all his hopes and his dreams to the man who would henceforth be the arbiter of his life.

Smiling as benevolently as the robust portraits of Frans Hals he so resembled, Cowley proceeded to deflate his wide-eyed fervour with a few well-chosen words. What had he called it? 'A life against nature.' Sobered, Doyle had left his office. But he was young, resilient, and soon bounced back.

That young man no longer existed.

"Pay attention when I'm talking to you, 4/5."

Doyle gave him a deliberately vacant look.  "Sorry."

With a sigh, Cowley seated himself behind his desk and picked up a loosely clipped sheaf of papers and a folder. "One man with your experience is worth ten new recruits.  If he's up to par."

If? 'Life in word' echoed a sombre voice in his mind. He looked over his shoulder at the door, then his eyes snapped back to Cowley. "I'm fit enough."

"It's your instincts, your insight into the criminal mind that I need now, not your reflexes."

Doyle felt as if someone were tying knots in his stomach. His confusion must have shown because Cowley shook his head.

"Carelessness, Doyle, is the real danger in this business."

Business. Doyle'd never understood the casual use of the term business about what they did. Business as usual. Violence as usual, killing as usual. Oh, he'd never had any illusions about himself. He never forgot that although it was all in good cause, he was still a killer.

But he'd refused to shrug it off. Hadn't fancied ending up like Bodie, who saw killing as a part of living. And if the killing got a little out of hand, innocent bystanders hurt along the way, well, those were the breaks. Oh, unfair, Ray, Bodie could be kind when he wanted to. Yeah, he had a little store of compassion that he carefully parcelled out like a child sharing a secret hoard of biscuits.

His gaze snapped back to Cowley, who had leant back in his chair, watching him, measuring, judging..."I know that."

"Do you? Do you, Doyle?"

Doyle started to fidget again. "Every field agent makes mistakes. What difference does it make, anyway? No matter how careful we are, if MI6 or the press or doesn't come along and cock it up, then for every one that we do put away, there's two or three more waiting to take his place."

"Aye. It's hard. The longer you're with this service the dirtier the laundry seems to get, the more twisted the intrigues, no neat borders between wrong and right."

"That's just it," Doyle cut in. "I've been a copper of one kind or another for twenty years now, and it never gets any better."

"Indeed." Cowley bent across his desk, and Doyle thought for a moment that he saw a gleam of sympathy in the pale eyes. Trick of the light, no doubt. "There's no end to the filth, no matter how diligently we sweep. But think of the alternative. Can you, in good conscience, believe that what you do doesn't matter?"

Doyle stifled a yawn. He'd heard it all before, too many times, no longer even curious as to why this kind of thing was always aimed at him.

Cowley pursed his lips and glanced down at the folder he held. When Doyle remained silent, he tossed the folder on the desk. "Go on, open it."

Doyle opened it; inside was a stack of photographs from a stakeout two weeks ago. An unprepossessing house, a car, a close-up of a number plate, several people coming and going. All quite routine. Towards the bottom the photos were fuzzier, crisscrossed with black streaks. There was a man getting out of a car, what seemed to be a profile shot. The last three pictures were black—the film had been exposed.

Oh, christ, he remembered now. He had needed to load more film; distracted by Bodie chattering on the far side of the room, he had opened the camera, hastily reloaded it, but too late, the man had gone inside.

"We can't be sure he was the one," he said defensively.

"Now we'll never know."

"He was only an outside contact, he wasn't important—" Doyle stopped. "No, sorry. You're right. I blew it. Sir." He closed the folder and set it back on the desk. "It won't happen again."

"No, it won't. You're off all grade seven assignments until you pull yourself together."

Pull myself together? "But—"

Cowley made an impatient gesture. "Och, do I have to spell it out for you? You've lost your heart for the work, man. You're just going through the motions."

Doyle jumped up. "Who told you this? If Bodie—"

"Sit down, Doyle," Cowley's voice was harsh. "I said, sit down!"

Doyle sat.

"Bodie hasn't said a word to me, although he should have done. I can see for myself. It's there in your reports, in your voice on the r/t, your attire..." he let his voice trail off with a significant glance at Doyle's shirt. "If this goes on you'll be a danger to yourself and everyone around you, and CI5 can't afford mistakes, not even small ones like these, Doyle."

"Why not ask for my resignation, if you feel that way about it?"

"It may come to that," Cowley snapped, scalpel-sharp. "You're angry, Doyle, not on occasion, but all the time, and that's bad. That's the worst thing that can happen to an agent—"

"I'm not the only one—" he broke off, tasting resentment.

"You mean Bodie, don't you?"

Doyle remained stubbornly silent.

"Well, don't you?"

"What do you think? Sir."

Cowley took his glasses off and rubbed his face. "I know all about Bodie, Doyle, more than you ever will."

"Yeah, but do you know he's crazy?" Doyle muttered.

"I recruited him, and don't you forget that. He's a good man, one of the best."

"He's a bloody lunatic," Doyle said, all the years of favouritism cropping up freshly in his mind and edging his words with venom.

"That's quite enough, Doyle."

Doyle fixed a sullen gaze on a point over Cowley's head, where the plaster peeled back to reveal the previous paint job. He'd resign in a minute, not wait to be asked, only—in spite of his fears and doubts, it had been years since he'd thought of resigning. He wouldn't know what else to do. He felt Cowley studying him, met his gaze in unconscious defiance.

After a minute, Cowley went back to perusing the stack of papers. Head bowed, shoulders hunched, he looked, suddenly and touchingly, every one of his sixty or so years, and tired. Bloody job wore everyone down sooner or later.

"I do know... you tell yourself the end justifies the means, but sometimes you look up at the sky and you wonder..." Cowley's voice trailed off uncharacteristically.

Why, he's no different from me, Doyle thought. Perversely, he felt disappointed.

Cowley caught Doyle watching him. "Och, I'm too old for this. I've seen this happen to men of your calibre before, Doyle. The man with a conscience doing things that can't possibly evade the verdict of that scrutiny. But I hope—I expect you can resolve your doubts given a little time. If not—"

That word again. If. If only he'd done something else with his life. Cowley didn't understand. It wasn't his ideals that troubled him, it was the lack of them. Hard to believe there had been a time when he really believed it all mattered, that a man's actions could somehow make a dent in the misery of the world. That was all gone now, and the part of him that used to bleed a little whenever someone died seemed to bleed only for himself and his lost dreams.

His conscience alone was still in working order. It watched him lie, cheat, kill, all for Queen and country, naturally, watched him like a video camera, recording his acts with merciless impartiality.

No matter which side you're on, you still end up in a box.

"Let us consider this a probationary period of say three months," Cowley said. "You will have several options at that time: transfer, reassignment to the support staff, or full reinstatement, subject of course to my approval."

Doyle shifted restlessly. "What about Bodie?"

Cowley leant back in his chair and fiddled with his pen. "Ah, Bodie. Yes. Rather too much heart for the job, I think." He seemed about to say more, then changed his mind, brisk again. "I've assigned him to the new recruits also."

Which explained much, if not all, of Bodie's fit of temper.

"The two of you will continue as a back-up team for the moment. If you want him."

"Who else?" said Doyle.

"Yes." Cowley paused, thoughtful, went on, "Now, about this Midland Bank case. Yes, I know all about that, Doyle, you needn't look so surprised. It's the only initiative you've shown in months." Crafty old buzzard, never missed a thing, Doyle thought in grudging admiration.  "Anything in it for us?"

Doyle kicked at the chair leg. "Maybe—I don't know. Nine milles."

"Aye." Cowley put his glasses back on. He licked his fingertip and began paging through a binder. "It is not under our brief at the moment, and I want no friction with the local police."

Doyle sighed. No point arguing with the old man. He could count the number of times he'd won such an argument on the fingers of one hand.

"But keep an eye on it."

"Right," Doyle said. He rose, and stretched, stiff from the hardwood seat of the chair.

"One more thing."

Doyle turned.

Cowley had risen also, a barely perceptible softening around his mouth. He cleared his throat.  "Be careful."

"Yes, sir."

"That's settled. Off with you."

Doyle closed the door gently behind him.

Turner and Jax were loitering in the corridor outside. Jax was all right, but Turner was still wet after five years in the service. Doyle nodded civilly enough, and would have kept going.

Turner detached himself from the wall he was leaning on and sauntered up, blocking his way. "Well, and good morning to you, Professor," he said.

Doyle gave him a jaundiced look. Word sure travelled fast. "Sod off," he growled.

"Hear you and your partner been goin' a couple of rounds with the old man." Turner glanced back at Jax who shook his head, then smiled at Doyle as if to say 'I tried'. Turner ignored the warning. "In fact, I heard he's got a vacancy at the top."

"Yeah, well keep your shirt on, sunshine." He smiled a crooked smile, and his foot shot out and tripped the larger man onto the floor.

Turner scrambled to his feet, but he made no move to retaliate, showing some sense for once, Doyle thought grimly.

"Hey, Doyle, just kidding. What's wrong with you? Get out of bed the wrong side, did you?"

Doyle spun and hurried off to the rest room to change his shirt, not caring that he'd left the other two agents staring after him. He wasn't in the mood for the one-upmanship and ribbing that passed for humour around CI5.

The corridor to the restroom was crowded with men and women talking and laughing. So this is where everyone had got off to, he thought, threading his way through to the locker area. Oughtn't to have been so hard on Turner, maybe. It had been a slow month, and everyone was a bit restless.

He turned his shirt back and had it over his head again when he heard voices coming into the anteroom, and paused to listen.

The conversation was going on in an undertone, but he recognised the voices as Murphy and Bodie.

He finished tucking in his shirt, bent over to consider himself in the small cracked mirror, and rubbed a thoughtful hand across his face.

The razor cut started to bleed again.

He dabbed some saliva on it, slammed the locker door shut and went into the anteroom.

Murphy nodded pleasantly at him over Bodie's shoulder, but Bodie gave no indication by word or glance that he'd even heard Doyle come in.

Doyle sidled over and planted himself between the two taller men and bared his teeth at Bodie. "Good morning, partner," he said pointedly.

"Nothing good about it," Bodie snapped. "You talked to Cowley?"

"Just now."

"Well, then you know." He resumed his exposition to Murphy as if Doyle wasn't there. Something about aeroplanes. Doyle wasn't interested.

He looked from Murphy to Bodie and back again. Bodie had no more than two inches of height on him, actually, but Murphy towered over them both, and with Bodie's attention fixed upwards, Doyle felt invisible. He glowered. CI5 was the only place he would be considered short, except maybe an American basketball team.

Catching his eye, Murphy shrugged. Doyle tuned out the words, listening to their voices drone above him.

A devil of mischief whispered in his ear. He draped his arm around Bodie's waist and let his hand slide down, lingering a bit longer than was necessary before thumping him on the back. "See you around, mate."

Without missing a beat, Bodie stepped on his foot, dropping a heavy hand on his shoulder to cover the movement. "So when the plane landed, they found this poodle clinging on for dear life to the wing. And you'll never guess what it had in its mouth?"

Murphy sighed theatrically and rolled his eyes. "But you're going tell me."

"The brick."

"The brick? How did a brick get into it?" Murphy looked at Doyle. "Lock him up, will you? He's dangerous."

Bodie chuckled. "Always a little slow on the uptake, our Murph. You know, the one the architect tossed in the air," he said patiently.

"Oh." Murphy said. "That brick. From a joke he told yesterday," this directed at Doyle by way of explanation, "It didn't make any sense either."

Doyle said nothing, only grimaced politely, too busy engaged with trying to nonchalantly pull his foot out from under Bodie's heel.

Murphy straightened his jacket. "Well, must dash. Got a hot date with the old man, and by the sound of things, I wouldn't want to disappoint him by being late."

Before Murphy was quite out of sight, Bodie was shoving him back into the locker room, glancing over his shoulder before saying in a menacing whisper, "Try anything like that again and I'll flatten you where you stand."

Doyle knelt to rub his cramped toes. "Aw, lay off, Bodie."

"Someone might see."

"So?"

"Our heads are stretched far enough on the block as it is. That," and Doyle didn't ask what he meant, "would be the last straw, and you know it."

Doyle shrugged. "You're always pinching or patting me, or some bloody thing. Don't see how they'd notice."

"That's different."

"Really?"

"It's habit. Doesn't mean a thing." Bodie said. His chin lifted, challenging Doyle to suggest that it did.

"Could've fooled me, last night—"

"What about last night?"

So much for that! Doyle thought. A one-off, then. Should've known better than to expect any different. He finished massaging his abused foot and carefully retied his shoe, so as not to break the frayed lace.

He rose, flexing his feet, and glanced at Bodie. "So, what'd Cowley have you on the carpet for, telling bad jokes in public?"

Bodie glared at him suspiciously, but after a few seconds he seemed to relax, and grinned back. "Nah. Said I was suffering from 'an excessive devotion to my duty' and he had wasted far too much time and money on me to have me get myself killed just when I was beginning to learn something, and more along those lines. I'll spare you the details."

"Considerate, that's what you are," said Doyle.

"So it's pounding the chalkboard for me, figuratively speaking of course, either that or a month-long holiday at Macklin's country resort, an' you know how I hated to turn that down."

"Mm."

"You?"

"Same," Doyle said mournfully, "He said I was careless."

Bodie reached over and tugged on his hair. "Never. You? Sloppy, maybe—" His finger brushed the cut near Doyle's mouth. "—but never careless." He spoke lightly enough, but his eyes held Doyle's, darkly intense.

Doyle's throat went dry, and he stared back, felt a flush creeping across his cheekbones.

"Anyway," Bodie went on, "I'll look after you."

Doyle jerked his head away and coughed. "Doesn't matter," he said. He cast his gaze nervously around, fastening on the cupboard Bodie had appropriated as his personal safe. "Bodie, do me a favour."

"Sure. Anything."

Reaching over and deftly picking the lock, "Get this checked over for me this afternoon," drawing his gun and holding it out, "I'm thinkin' about taking off."

"You can't go out without a gun—"

"Don't worry—"

"We may be on standby, but—"

"It's all right—"

"—we could get called anytime and besides, you never know who's lurking out there—"

"Bodie!"

Bodie fell silent. Fiercely silent.

"Don't worry about it," Doyle said, and swung open the cupboard door, extracting the spare .38 he knew Bodie had stashed there. He smiled sweetly. "I'm takin' yours."

He went back upstairs to the desk tucked in a cubbyhole that served as an office and sprawled himself in a chair. Deciding he was hot, he stood up and hung his jacket carefully over the back of the chair and sat down. He laid his head on the desk for a while, then sat up again and pulled out a stack of papers, but moved them to the out-file without looking at them. Then he picked up a magazine, leant back in the chair and put his feet on the desk. Five minutes passed. Then five more. He hadn't read a word.

Maybe Betty still had the Midland file. He threw the magazine down, started towards the computer room, changed his mind and wheeled back to grab his jacket.

A walk was what he needed, spent too much time cooped up in this drab office, or hunched over the steering wheel of a car, or squatting in bushes with field glasses scrunched against his eyes.

The corner park would be just the thing.

He wandered around for a while, stopping once to snatch a lilac from its bush when he thought no one was looking. He tucked it in his lapel and ambled on towards the pond, wishing idly that he'd brought some lunch as he watched a couple of kids feeding the ducks, but in the end he drove home, got an unremarkable meal and after staring at a soundless television picture for a long time, he went off to bed, not bothering to undress, pushing a pillow over his face to block the glare of the afternoon sun.

 

 

IV.

 

Doyle was dreaming again, creeping through shadows towards a brightly lit doorway because he knew the thing he had been following for so long was on the other side. Silent and sure-footed he approached the light, had his shoulder on the door ready to force it open, when he was caught from behind. He tried to turn, couldn't move, he was tangled in a confining web of sheets—sheets? He woke up.

Warm darkness pressed around him still, real now. He was awake all right, lying in bed—his belt buckle was cutting into his stomach. And he knew he hadn't left that light on. He would have sat up, called out a challenge, but for the hands that bore him down. "Sshh. It's only me."

Only you.

Confusion held him momentarily paralysed, then "Bodie?" he whispered furiously, "What do you think you're doin'?"

The bed dipped as Bodie's weight was added to its burden. "Cuddlin' up to you, sunshine, what does it feel like I'm doin?" He pulled Doyle's shirt up, wriggling closer and Doyle felt the cool jolt of bare skin on his back, and Bodie's chin digging into his shoulder blade.

"Warm," Bodie said, hands gliding under the front of the shirt, "Take this off," he ordered, "Be nicer that way."

"Bodie. I didn't give you a key so you could come barging in the middle of the night."

"Funny, how things work out, innit," came the sleepy response. "Ow, don't kick me, will you?"

Doyle rolled off the bed, having liberated himself from both Bodie and the tangle of covers.

"You crazy or what?" he hissed.

"Yeah, 'm crazy." He lifted his head, and the light from the other room picked out a silver glint in his hair. "Come back here, would have gone home if I wanted to sleep by myself."

"That's just where you're going, mate," Doyle said. He unbuckled the irritating belt and flung it on the floor. Found Bodie's shirt and jacket draped over the wardrobe door, and tossed them across the room. "Come on, Sleeping Beauty, up."

He got rid of his shoes and socks, realised no sound had come from the bed for some minutes. He looked over at Bodie, saw only the even rise and fall of chest under the blanket.

Great.  He was going to have to drag him out.

It almost wasn't worth the trouble; he didn't feel much like sleeping any more, but it was the principle of the thing.

"Bodie," he whispered.

No response.

"Bodie!"

Bodie opened a reluctant eyelid. "Sh. Don't want to disturb the neighbours, do you?" he cautioned, flicking a glance over Doyle's body, then closing his eye again with a satisfied sigh.

Doyle walked over and shook him. "Uh-uh. You're not going to sleep."

"Not a very charming prince, are you?" Bodie remarked, "Don't even get a kiss." Yawning and stretching, he made as if to get up, extending his arms with a deceptive lassitude that didn't fool Doyle. He took a step back: too late. Bodie grabbed him about the waist, catching him off balance, and he thudded down.

Bodie's nose nuzzled his cheek. "Let me stay," he murmured.

Winded, Doyle couldn't snap out the choice words that came immediately to his tongue, couldn't resist the arms strait-jacketing him.

"What the hell's got into you," Doyle whispered, wriggled away from the finger tickling between his ribs, "I told you—why I am whispering?" Though his voice sounded a deafening rasp in the quiet room, he went on, "Forget it, Bodie, I'm not some kind of security blanket. You don't want to be on your own, go hunt up a bird, shouldn't trouble you at all."

Bodie clutched tighter. "I'll make it worth your while," he promised in the low, sexy voice Doyle had heard him use on women.

Doyle's stomach knotted alarmingly. "Let me go, now, or you'll wish you had."

To his relief, Bodie's arms fell away, as quickly as spring-loaded handcuffs at the touch of a key.

He eased himself off Bodie and sprawled on his back next to him.

"You never let go of anything," Bodie said. He flung his arm across his face, casually, as if to shade his eyes from the light.

"No," said Doyle. "But that's not what Cowley thinks."

"Ah. He doesn't know you like I do."

Doyle felt sticky, cotton fabric clinging on to his skin. He sat up and removed his shirt, settled back against the pillows. His eyes focused on the arc of light at the doorway.

"You want to stay," he said finally, "you can." He heard a strangled noise, then an ironic, "Thanks."

He shot Bodie a suspicious sideways look, expecting to find the blue eyes brimming with cynical amusement; instead Bodie's face was burrowed in the crook of his elbow. His other hand twisted ceaselessly in the sheets.

Not laughing, then.

It was not in Doyle's nature to leave unsolved mysteries lying about. "The Cow's rampage got you worried, does it? Not too many openings for ex-secret agents."

"No," Bodie said flatly. He shifted around and his hand touched Doyle's, accidentally perhaps, but he didn't remove it. "Nothing to worry about."

Yeah, sure, Doyle thought, as cold fingers uncertainly brushed his palm. He closed his own around them, gave a reassuring squeeze.

Bodie squeezed back, cruelly pinching the delicate bones of the hand. Have a bruise tomorrow, Doyle told himself. He stood it, however, stirred by the plea inherent in that grip. Some of the envy he'd always had for Bodie's unflappable demeanour melted.

He watched the shadows bunch where wall met ceiling as though cowering from the light. Aren't we a pair, he thought, CI5's crack team, real tough guys we are, holding hands like two kids lost in the woods.

No bread crumbs to guide them out either.

He felt, rather than heard, Bodie sigh next to him, and the grip on his hand relaxed.

A car rumbled by in the street outside, headlights sweeping across the ceiling, bending the shadows back upon themselves. Tyres squealed, and the car passed on, leaving darkness and silence in its wake.

He glanced at Bodie, presumed him asleep, until he saw the sparkle of eyes.

"Bodie?"

"Yeah."

"About last night—"

"What about it?"

"How long had you been planning it before asking me?"

"Five minutes," Bodie said.

"No, I mean when did you decide?"

"Last night."

Doyle tried to assimilate this, but couldn't. He had quite naturally assumed that it was the culmination of the weeks of late-night phone-calls. "Come on, you telling me it was a sudden impulse or something?"

"You could say that." Bodie sounded faintly puzzled. "I hadn't thought about you like that before at all—"

"You never think at all," Doyle put in, uneasy though he was at a loss to say why.

As smoothly as if Doyle hadn't spoken, Bodie continued, "Then there it was." He had put his finger against the curve of Doyle's lip while he was talking, and now he kissed him precisely where the finger had been.

Doyle fidgeted. "So why now?"

"I dunno. Restless, I suppose."

"Oh, very flattering," Doyle said acidly. "You're lucky I didn't shove your teeth down your throat."

"Nah. I knew I could talk you into anything, eventually."

"You—" Doyle elbowed him away.

Bodie stretched out beside him again. "Don't be like that. I do stuff for you, Christ, Doyle, most of the time you got me fetchin' and carryin' for you like a bloody handmaid."

"That's because you insist on carting half the armoury and enough food for an army whenever we go somewhere," Doyle retorted automatically. His mind returned to its previous track.

"You ever made it with a man," he asked a minute later, "before last night," he clarified.

"Yeah."

"Thought you were the original ladykiller."

Bodie's teeth flashed white in the dark.  "I am."

"So," Doyle hesitated, but he was terribly curious all at once, "When was it—I mean..." Damn stupid, this.

"Africa," Bodie said.

"Africa?" shaking his head, "That's your answer to everything, mate."

There was a short pause. "Fuck off, Doyle," Bodie said mildly. "What's your excuse?"

"Didn't need one, did I?" Doyle grinned, although he knew Bodie couldn't see it. "I tried everything I could think of at least once," reminiscently, "a lot of things more than once. But I guess I liked women better."

Bodie didn't say anything.

"I still like women better," Doyle said.

"Me, too."

"So what're you doin' here?"

Bodie rolled over and pulled him close. "Couldn't stay away, could I?" And he kissed him, gently probing the corners of his mouth.

Doyle let himself be explored, absorbing the bittersweet trace of whiskey as Bodie's tongue tickled the roof of his mouth. "Yeah, I know what you mean," he said when his mouth was free again.

Bodie's tongue travelled on down his jaw and into his throat, outlined the hollows, as if mapping out territory.

Doyle squirmed when teeth grazed a nipple.

"Don't you like that?" Bodie asked.

"Tickles," Doyle said, "Sorry."

"How about this?" crossing his chest to the other nipple, circling around it. Doyle felt it harden under the warm tongue.

He shrugged. "Interesting, I guess."

Bodie nodded gravely, then pressed his lips into the soft flesh just under the arch of Doyle's rib cage.

A shiver ran through him. He clasped his fingers together at the back of Bodie's dark head, combed through the hair curling at the nape of his neck, felt Bodie shiver in return.

"You like that," Bodie concluded and placed his hands around Doyle's hips to pin him there while he went on kissing him, following the line of bone with his tongue.

Doyle let his head fall back on the pillow. Bodie had none of the hesitancy of the previous evening, deft and self-assured exactly as Doyle had imagined him in a long ago fantasy.

"You were saying before," Bodie's voice drifted up to him.

"Huh?" he said stupidly.

"Know what you mean?" Bodie prompted.

"Oh." Doyle's hand left Bodie's head, covered his face. "I kept thinkin' about it, you know, me suckin' you off, all day, I thought about it."

"Did you," muffled as he buried his face in Doyle's stomach.

"Kept givin' me a hard-on." He felt himself stir at even the second-hand memory.

"Like this?" Bodie said, and poked experimentally at his crotch.

Doyle closed his eyes, half-ashamed, half-pleased at his body's immediate response.

And he didn't try to prevent Bodie from unzipping his jeans, raising his hips so Bodie could slide them down. Bodie paused and ran his fingers over Doyle's hipbone. "Your skin here is soft as a girl's," he said and kissed him there.

Bodie knelt beside him, fighting to drag the heavy denim over his feet, succeeding at last. Doyle permitted this, too, thoughtful yet. He watched curiously as Bodie's hands took him, stroking him erect, engrossed in the peculiar sensation of being entirely enclosed. Bodie's hands were so much larger than his own, or any woman's.

The hands left him and Bodie sat up. "I thought about it, too," he said.

"Thought you changed your mind, today," Doyle said.

Bodie shook his head, intent on removing his own trousers.

"So what's happening?"

"Who cares?"

"I care."

"You care about so many things I don't."

"Not so many."

"I don't see what difference it makes," Bodie said, lips moving against his cheek, "I'm here with you now and there's an end to it."

And he pressed himself close, wrapping arms tightly around Doyle's back, hooking one leg around Doyle's thigh, and wrestled him into a kiss, rough and demanding, as if he were angered by the stubbornness of his flesh, wanting to sink into Doyle, bone into bone, head into head, hip into hip.

Bodie tore his mouth away and squeezed impossibly closer, panting.

The desperation that animated him jumped like a spark into Doyle's body. He pressed back, felt the tender swell of Bodie's cock stiffening against his belly.

That set Doyle alight, running his hands down Bodie's back, over the smooth skin in the indentation of his waist, sliding around the curve of buttock, diving into the parting there. He let his hand linger, gripping gently, dipping his fingertips across soft, velvet soft skin, unaccountably shy. He wanted—but Bodie flinched so he moved on to the back of his thigh, feeling the hairs there rise to his touch.

His erection throbbed insistently in its trap at Bodie's groin. He thrust against the soft hollow, but his movement was hampered by the embrace.

Bodie mumbled something and pushed at him, reached between their bodies, hand closing warm and tight around his cock, and he stopped fighting, then, arched his back to push his cock further into that all-encompassing grip. And Bodie held him just right, better than he could have done for himself, stroking evenly, squeezing and releasing in time with his strokes.

He tried to tell him so, to encourage him, but his voice wouldn't work and his vision blurred, a few seconds more and he was going to come—when Bodie leant across the gap and kissed him, he did, just like that, sweet hot current of pleasure streaming through him into Bodie's hands.

"You're beautiful," Bodie murmured in his ear, "You're beautiful when you come," thumb continuing to stroke until the last spasm passed.

Doyle closed his eyes, floating on hazy aftermath.

The touch of lips to his eyelids brought him round, to a dull ache from Bodie's weight lying on his arm. Gently he pulled it free.

"That was nice," he whispered, brushing Bodie's cheek with the back of his hand.

"Oh, very poetic," Bodie snorted, but his eyes were crinkling at the corners. "Well, Prince Charming, if you don't mind..." One eyebrow lifted, and he pushed his hips forward suggestively.

Doyle chuckled a little. A fine one to talk, Bodie was, he had all the romanticism of an old dufflebag. Doyle kissed him anyway, and wriggled his hips, amused and pleased at the instant arch of response.

Mindful of Bodie's attempts to arouse him, he bent his head and touched his lips to a nipple and prodded it curiously with his tongue. The soft moan that this elicited was the sweetest sound he'd heard in a long time, sending little echoes of pleasure through him. He licked round the edge, then settled into gentle sucking, felt Bodie's fingers digging into his back, so he kept at it until Bodie was gasping for breath. His lips followed the curve of muscle across the smooth expanse of his chest to the other nipple, with the same gratifying result.

A fierce warmth rose up in him, and no small wonder, that he should feel such tenderness for the familiar stranger in his arms, that he should want nothing more than to please him.

Bodie's thighs shifted restlessly against his.

He wet his palm with a quick tongue, and slid his hand down Bodie's stomach, pausing to collect what he could of his own spilled semen. He curled his fingers around Bodie's cock, working his way around the shaft to get a proper grip. Awkward at this angle, it was.

Bodie felt solid and heavy in his hand—not so very much larger commented a clinical voice in his mind—but still it felt that way to Doyle as he finally managed a comfortable hold.

Doyle tilted his head back to see him. Bodie made no sign, no sound, only his rapid breathing telling Doyle he was aware and alive to his touch. "This all right?" he whispered, "hope I'm doin' it the way you like," waiting anxiously for some response.

"Harder," was all Bodie said, and Doyle complied, gazing stupefied at the frown on Bodie's mouth, the sharply arched brows drawn in concentration—how many times had he seen that expression, or something very much like it, when Bodie was on to something, piecing fragmentary clues into a whole that made sense—

Never see it again without a twinge, the voice in his mind predicted.

Bodie's eyes flew open, darkened as with pain, locked into Doyle's. ''Now," he said, "now."

And Doyle felt, in amazement, tiny violent pulses under his fingertips, right before the spasm of sticky fluid washed his hand. Never noticed that with himself, he thought, always too preoccupied with the pleasure of it.

The glassy stare faded from Bodie's eyes, but he was shaking all over. Doyle gathered him up, plied him with kisses until he was as breathless as Bodie.

Bodie pulled away and sprawled on his back, yawning. "Wore me out, son," he said, and grinned. "We'll make a prince of you yet."

Bereft, Doyle only stared at him.

"Aw, don't look like that. C'mere." Bodie held out his arms. When Doyle didn't move, he tugged at his hair. "Come on."

Doyle shook the annoying hand off, but he allowed himself to be surrounded by Bodie's arms. He laid his head on Bodie's chest, listening to the gradually slowing heartbeat.

"Might rain tomorrow," Bodie said a while later. "Could use it."

"What was that?" Doyle asked.

"Don't you ever pay attention to a word I say?" Bodie asked.

"I can hear your voice echoing in there," Doyle told him, "sure it's not hollow, mate?"

"Could be." Bodie yawned again.

Doyle couldn't sleep, so he watched the streetlight waver through the curtains, apprehensive for no particular reason.

He lifted his head. "Bodie?"

"Mm?"

"You remember telling me you wanted to resign?"

"I remember."

"Did you mean it?"

"Why?"

Bodie's voice was slurry with sleep, but Doyle felt his arms tense. He wished he could see Bodie's expression, but all he could see was a smooth plane of cheek. "It's Cowley, y'know. He told me I'd be out if I didn't straighten up."

"Tryin' to scare you."

"You reckon?"

"'Course."

Doyle felt no such confidence, only a glum fear. He knew his performance had been steadily falling off for the last year now. Oh, not so's anyone but Cowley would notice, even his half-yearly evaluation showed insignificant decreases in his times, written off as age catching up to him— "The thing is, don't know if I can do what he wants, do I? The smell of blood these days makes me want to vomit."

Bodie coerced his head back down. "Come on, Ray, it's not as bad as all that," he said. "You'll be all right."

Doyle sighed. Reassured in spite of himself by the slow patient rhythm of Bodie's heart, he fell into a dreamless sleep.

 

 

V.

 

HE CAME AWAKE a little at time, stretched luxuriously, turned his head as memory and consciousness slid into place. Bodie was curled up the far side of the bed, poised at the very edge, his back to Doyle, asleep.

Doyle got up quietly to bath and shave, taking care not to open the razor cut near his mouth again.

He emerged towel-wrapped, and watched Bodie sleep while he dried his hair.

In repose, Bodie's face lost all its tense lines, the intense blue gaze hidden under the black sweep of eyelashes resting gently on his cheek. His forehead relaxed and the grim set of his mouth softened, bestowing on him a sort of innocence, like a child's innocence before conscience awakens.

Doyle laid the towel aside, wondering whether to wake him.

That problem was solved when Bodie rolled onto his back and opened his eyes. He looked at himself, and about the room, then at Doyle, all with an air of a man who finds himself in a disreputable hotel and can't quite remember how he got there.

He sat up and swung his legs off the bed. After a minute, he buried his head in his hands.

Doyle finished drying himself and extracted fresh clothes from the pile he'd left yesterday. "Bath's free," he said.

Bodie looked up. "Why bother?" He picked his shirt up off the floor and held it between thumb and forefinger, and Doyle would have sworn he wrinkled his nose in distaste.

"I’ll get you something." Doyle rummaged through his drawers.

"Nothing you put on that scrawny body of yours will fit me," Bodie said.

"I have one of your shirts from a while back."

Bodie came up behind him and rested his chin on Doyle's shoulder. "Is it clean?" he said suspiciously.

"Of course it's clean, what do think I am?"

"A slob."

He was so close Doyle felt the warmth of his skin through his own cotton T-shirt. He dodged under Bodie's arm and hurled the shirt at him. "Can't help you with trousers," he said, "That is unless you fancy havin' your voice raised an octave or so."

Bodie gave him an icy glare, then he picked up his trousers from the floor, wrapped dignity round himself like water round a rock and disappeared into the bathroom.

The pipes overhead screeched as the water started up. Doyle sank down on the edge of the bed and listened to the water run.

Loneliness could drive a man into the strangest corners.

He put his head in his hands, unconsciously imitating Bodie's gesture. Wasn't exactly the ideal basis for getting involved with someone, was it? No matter how well you thought you knew them.

The water went off. Doyle jumped up and began hunting for his belt.

Bodie reappeared, hair slicked back and skin reddened from towelling, clothes draped over one arm. He hung them, along with his jacket, over the bedside table and got back into bed. He thumped the pillow, quite unnecessarily in Doyle's opinion, and lay back, hands behind his head, watching Doyle through slitted eyes.

"Aren't you going to get up?" Doyle asked him, more sharply than he'd intended.

"What for? There's nothin' to do."

Doyle went on looking for his belt, uncomfortably aware of Bodie's shrewd gaze, vigilant as a sentry, attending his every move. "So what are you doing tonight," he said to fill the silence, regretting it immediately. Brilliant, Ray, what's he goin' to make of that?

Bodie appeared not to notice anything amiss. "Same as today. Nothing."

"What? No Claire, no Betty, no Julia, or whoever it is this week?"

"Told you; I'm withering on the vine."

"What happened to the patented charm, then?"

Bodie rearranged the covers until only his head peeked out. "Lost me touch, haven't I? I'll be chatting up a likely female prospect for bed and breakfast, and my mind wanders off..." His voice died out and he gave Doyle a bewildered glance—as if Doyle could explain it all away.

"Senility, mate," Doyle informed him, "It's all that sugar, rots your brain.   Told you you'd be sorry one day."

"Oh, you've cheered me up no end," Bodie said. He made a sniffing noise. "Who needs it anyway, the last three informed me I was hooked on violence and it had warped my personality and they wanted a man who had a more balanced approach to life, thank you very much."

Doyle tsked in mock-sympathy.

"What happened to the woman who wanted to be wined and dined and made love to, that's what I want to know," Bodie grumbled. "All they seem to want these days is to talk your bloody ear off."

"What's the world coming to," Doyle said absently. Don't want to be wined and dined and dumped, was his thought, but he kept this opinion to himself, vaguely disturbed by the topic. He made a snap decision. "Listen, mate, I'm goin' in, got some things to do."

"Such dedication."

"Not even goin' to check in?"

"Nah. Besides, I got my handy little radio right here." He patted his jacket.

"S'pose you're right," Doyle said. "Though if I spend another day sittin' on me hands I'll go mad, start shootin' at people on the street, just for the hell of it."

Bodie chuckled softly. "Best leave the mayhem to me, son, it's not your style."

Doyle had unzipped his jeans, was tucking in his shirt, but now he paused. "What do you mean by that?"

"Never mind."

"No, tell me. G'wan, let's hear it."

Bodie sighed and rolled his eyes. "Too idealistic, mate. You'd spend the rest of your life feeling guilty. Probably beggar yourself buying flowers for the graves."

Satisfied with his shirt, Doyle rezipped his jeans. "Didn't buy flowers for Benny, did I?" he pointed out. "An' I liked him."

"That's because Cowley sent 'em for you," Bodie said firmly. "And lettin' CI5 pay for anything is balm to your miserly little soul."

"I'm not cheap," Doyle burst out, but Bodie laughed. "And I'm not any kind of an idealist, either," he continued hotly, "Look at what I do for chrissakes, I've killed more men than I can count, without so much as a twinge."

Bodie was shaking his head.

Feeling more ridiculous by the second at having to defend himself from the charge of being tender-hearted, Doyle resorted to attack. "I'm no better than you are."

"Thanks," Bodie said, a sardonic twist to his mouth. "I think."

"The difference is, I know there's something wrong with me."

Bodie turned on his side and curled up again. "Think I'm going back to sleep," he announced, as if to himself. "Meet a better class of people that way."

Doyle turned back to the chest of drawers in disgust, pulled clean socks from another drawer. His shoes materialised after a brief hunt and he knelt to tie them with quick irritated jerks. "Has it by any chance occurred to you that it's my bed you're so cosily hunkered down in?"

In answer, Bodie drew the sheet over his head.

One day, Doyle promised himself, he was going to throttle the insufferable bastard.

Blissfully unaware of the dire future in store for him, Bodie yawned enormously; Doyle could hear him from across the room.

"Lock up when you leave," was all he said. He picked up his jacket and went on outside, congratulating himself on his fantastic self-restraint in not slamming the door.

Myriad starbursts of reflected sunlight glittered off the side of the car. Doyle shielded his eyes from the glare, patting his jacket pocket. Empty. He tried his jeans, fished out the keys. Have to do without sunglasses, he wasn't about to go back for them. He squinted at the door lock as he fitted the key inside, went to open the door, then yelped and jerked his hand away. Why the hell didn't someone put cloth or plastic covering on door handles, he thought, the metal was searing cold in winter, scorchingly hot in summer, it was ridiculous. He gritted his teeth and yanked the door open. He quickly wound both windows down to let the sweltering heat escape and drove off.

The air that swept through the windows was dry, the sky overhead a clear cloudless blue, if a bit faded. So much for Bodie's prediction of rain.

His eyes hurt and he was sweating by the time he reached HQ. To his surprise, the CI5 carpark was only a quarter full, but he didn't question his good fortune and parked as close to the entrance as he could get, grateful for the lightweight fabric of his T-shirt.

Silence greeted him inside. The security guard sat motionless. When Doyle presented his ID he gave the merest nod, then went back to staring at the glass that separated them. Doyle shrugged, passed on. Upstairs, office doors stood open along the main corridor, revealing empty desks.

Only Cowley's door was closed. Doyle paused outside, listening—yes, that was definitely Cowley's voice—must be on the phone. Reassured, he went on to Records, squelching the urge to tiptoe.

Hunt, another agent, was manning the desk. Doyle grinned at him. He didn't know the man very well, had worked with him as back-up on a babysitting op a few months ago, found him neat, methodical and precise, but he was a tight-lipped bastard, never had much to say for himself. "What's this?" Doyle said, "You get up Cowley's nose or something?"

Hunt blinked, but the smooth black features revealed nothing. "No. We're all in for it, Doyle, weren't you at the briefing yesterday?"

"Missed it," Doyle said.

"Slack," Hunt said. As Doyle narrowed his eyes, he continued, "Cowley's word, not mine. Cowley wants this organisation back to top efficiency within the month." He made a minute adjustment to his perfectly knotted tie. "Personally, I agree."

"Something big in the works?" Doyle asked.

Hunt shrugged. "You didn't come here to chat, I presume. What can I do for you?"

Doyle leant with both elbows on the counter, causing a stack of papers to slide to the floor. He smiled as Hunt stooped to pick them up. "Sorry 'bout that, 'ow about the Midland file," he said. "'S in the back," he added helpfully and waited while Hunt went looking, grinning to himself as he began filling out the necessary forms. Hunt returned and silently handed over the file. "These two as well," Doyle told him.

"You might have thought of that before. They were right next to this one."

"Yeah," Doyle said, "careless of me."

Hunt turned without a word and disappeared into the stacks again.

Doyle yawned and stretched. The wall clock ticked gently over his head. He glanced up at it, wondering what had set Cowley off this time. There hadn't been any problems that he knew of, all operations going smoothly. It was almost as if in the last three months Cowley had achieved his oft-stated goal of making CI5 obsolete.

And what of Cowley's men, his action teams, his 'Bisto Kids'? What happened to a CI5 agent after he became obsolete? He had never thought that far, never counted on living as long as he had, actually.

"Anything else?" Hunt's bland voice interrupted his thoughts.

"Nah. I'll let you know." Doyle winked at him and left. He grabbed a coffee and headed straight to his own desk.

The police report was tattered round the edges. An isolated incident in the country, it had only come to CI5's attention because of the sophisticated weaponry used.

When a second robbery occurred a few months after the first, the case snagged Doyle's curiousity. He studied the reports then, but couldn't find anything to substantiate his feeling that the robberies were linked.

The time and place of the robberies had been carefully chosen, he was certain, everything about them spoke of a meticulous fetish for detail.

'Evidence, Doyle, bring me evidence.' He could already hear Cowley's response.

That was the real trouble with CI5; their brief gave them enormous latitude to deal with major crime, but it was unclear about exactly what sort of crime. He'd lost count of the times they'd clashed with other departments over jurisdiction. Preventive action, Cowley always said, but the exact criteria for determining what was a CI5 matter and what was not rested entirely within Cowley's Byzantine mind.

Of course, that same brief allowed operatives a certain measure of independence, something Doyle had always liked. An agent might follow his nose wherever it led, subject only to Cowley's approval. Whim, Doyle thought it meant. Not for the first time, he questioned the wisdom of letting an entire department rest on the shoulders of one man, however upright and honourable.

He scrabbled through his file drawer for a map, spread it out on his desk. Perhaps it was coincidence, but the two towns lay in a direct line with London.

His first task was to track down the armoury used. He could call Bodie, he expected, Bodie would know, but he didn't feel much like talking to him at the moment. Bodie would rag him about playing Sherlock Holmes.

Murphy would do quite nicely. He went to the radio room to put the call.

The radio, usually crackling with information, was eerily silent.

"Page 6.2," he told the girl on duty. He hadn't seen her before, she must be new. Pretty, in a coltish way. Not his type.

"He's in Marseilles, undercover, and can't be contacted," she informed him crisply.

Upon further investigation he discovered that Cowley had dispatched half the squad to various places around the country, a few fortunate ones to the Continent—on watch, listen and learn operations, sort of an all-purpose stake-out.

 

 

_Passion_

_imprisoned in stone,_

_wanting_

_only a lover’s hand_

_to release it_

""

 

Would have to wait then. He shook his head at Cowley's zeal; trust the old man! Cowley had too much of a taste for the game. If trouble wouldn't come to him, he'd go to the trouble; create it probably if he had to. "Some people have all the luck," he said to the girl. She raised a sceptical eyebrow.

He leant close. "What I meant was, that leaves us alone here."

She smiled, showing a row of even white teeth. "Save it. You're wasting your time," she said, "I've been warned about you, 4/5, you and your partner both."

Doyle chuckled, amused as always when the scuttlebutt lumped him in the same category as Bodie. Guilt by association? He didn't pursue it.

He spent the rest of the day running cross-checks on the cases, requesting information from the local police stations about known criminals. By evening his desk was piled high with papers, and he was no closer than he'd been before to proving a link between the two raids. He looked up; it had gone dark outside.

Time to go home.

He went down the stairs, through dimly lit corridors, whistling tunelessly, accompanied by a faint drumming sound, growing louder as he approached the door. He glanced up at the louvered windows and groaned. Bodie's prophecy of rain had come true after all; it was pouring. And he'd left his jacket in the office. Great.

Nothing for it, he wasn't spending the night here. He made a mad dash to the car, but got soaked anyway, and when he opened the door, rain sheeted in and drenched the seat.

He sat in the mist-shrouded car, thinking, until he noticed the downpour easing up. He used his sleeve to wipe a clear spot on the windscreen and drove away.

The rain had stopped by the time he reached his flat, leaving the sky clear and black. City lights blotted out the stars, but the moon gleamed three-quarters bright, reflecting amorphous shapes in the rain-slick pavement, illuminating his doorway, bouncing off his keys when he unlocked the door.

He clumped through the sitting room to the bedroom without switching on the lights, shedding wet clothes along the way. The curtains had been opened, enough to let a strip of moonlight cast pale unreality about the furnishings.

A quick scan showed the litter of clothes and books had vanished. Doyle suppressed a rising chuckle; he ought to be affronted at the insult to his housekeeping but the image of Bodie puttering through the little domestic tasks like some deranged housewife was too much. He did chuckle then, wondered what he'd made of the three-weeks' worth of dishes in the kitchen.

As his knee encountered fresh, tightly stretched sheets, he glanced across the bed.

His breath caught in his throat.

Bodie was still there, just as Doyle had left him, sound asleep. Except for the covers being thrown back, he might never have moved the entire day. He lay curled around himself, forearm cradling his face, as if in silent supplication before a god too immense to speak to or look at.

The moon polished his form to porcelain perfection: pristine, untouched; yet shining with the luminous texture of living flesh. Passion imprisoned in stone, moulded by some unseen creator, wanting only a lover's hand to release it.

Enchanted, Doyle stared at the sleeping man, hardly daring to breathe.

His eyes traced the long clean lines of back flaring gently into hip, brushed the satin sheen of skin laid over flowing muscle, swept the length of legs scissored gracefully to reveal the rounded curve of buttocks, and his gaze dwelt briefly there, on the shadow caressed parting.

He shook himself. Illusions! It was only Bodie after all. Exhausted by the look of him. Taking great care, Doyle slid into the bed, slipping his arm under Bodie's and around his belly. Bodie stirred and said something when Doyle touched him, but Doyle shushed him, and laying his cheek against the broad back, he was asleep in moments.

 

 

VI.

 

DOYLE SMOTHERED A YAWN and threw down the crossword he'd been trying to solve. It slid across the table and fell to the floor. He crumpled his coffee cup and tossed it at the wastebasket, the yawn escaping him at last, and idly traced the cracks in the vinyl table-covering with his pencil. One section was peeling and as he watched, a small brown spider crawled out and made its way intrepidly down the table leg.

Gonna get stepped on, Doyle silently advised, but he let the spider be.

Simms, sequestered in the corner of the restroom with the newspaper, peered over the top at him, then seemed to look through him as if he were transparent.

"What?" Doyle demanded.

"Nothing," Simms said, and went back to his paper.

Doyle sighed, then froze. There was a footstep behind him and cold metal touched his neck.

"Your money or your life."

Doyle reached up and grabbed the barrel. "Very funny, Lucas. Ha, ha. Why don't you take it on the road?" He gestured Simms's direction. "And take him with you." He let go the gun and shoved the chair backwards.

"Watch out." Lucas came round into sight, holstering his gun. "Just trying to liven things up a bit. It's like a tomb in here." He knelt down, short blond curls visible above the table top.

Doyle glanced at the floor. The spider had disappeared.

"You done with this?"

He looked up to see Lucas brandishing the crossword and shrugged. He wondered why he hadn't been scared, not at all, he hadn't known it was Lucas at first. He yawned again.

"What's a four-letter word for comfort?"

"Bird," came Simm's voice from behind the newspaper.

Doyle was relieved when the intercom bleeped and a crisp female voice told him to report to Cowley immediately.

When he got to Cowley's office, Bodie was already there, slouching against the wall, arms folded, eyes half-closed.

"What's happening?" Doyle asked him.

"Don't know."

The door opened and two young men emerged. One of the newer teams, Doyle remembered, well, new—three years or so—god, had it been that long? Their names escaped him.

"They get younger every day," Bodie commented when they had passed.

Doyle thought about that for awhile. The shift from outside jobs to intricate undercover operations had been so gradual he hardly noticed. Younger men were better equipped to handle the physical strain of full-blown raids or rescue exercises. Didn't bother him. You always knew it would happen. Though you had to keep your skills honed, any job could go sour and rip open with some heavy action.

Not that there had been much of that lately. He glanced at Bodie affectionately. The recent enforced inactivity must be hard on him, all his restless energy gone to waste. At the moment, he was meditating on the wall opposite with dark brooding gaze, his foot tapping impatiently.

He reminded Doyle of a tiger he used to watch at the zoo, pacing the confines of his cage, round and round, in slow steady circles as if centring on some inner force, until finally he would lie down and stare sightlessly through the bars. At such times only the slightest pricking of the ears betrayed the animal's awareness of the crowd; as though refusing to acknowledge the existence of onlookers somehow denied his captivity.

Captives. Lock, stock and barrel. Trapped forever in the bowels of CI5, doomed to eternal boredom. He snickered, earning an ever-so-slight flickering of disdain from Bodie.

On the other hand, maybe it was him, not the workload. There were usually plenty of assignments, after all. Maybe he had grown so calloused that his life's work no longer meant anything. He was still trying to decide when the door to Cowley's office opened again.

Betty emerged, gestured with her head for them to go in.

Cowley was on the phone, talking to the Minister from what Doyle could gather, though he wasn't much interested. Cowley acknowledged them with a curt nod.

Bodie sat at the edge of Cowley's desk, balanced quite finely. He winked at Doyle.

Cowley rang off a few moments later. He narrowed his eyes at Bodie, but didn't comment. "Safehouse Eight has been blown," he announced. "I've arranged two potential replacements and I'll want the pair of you to check them out."

"How was it blown?" Doyle asked. He glanced at Bodie. "Sir."

"On a Special Branch operation. You can stop by Property Records on your way to pick up the addresses and property description. Report to me first thing in the morning your evaluation." The phone rang again. "Cowley."

"What were Special Branch doing using our safehouse?" Bodie said under his breath to Doyle. Doyle shrugged.

Cowley covered the telephone receiver and looked up at Bodie as if he had metamorphosised into some particularly disgusting form of insect life. "A routine courtesy, 3/7. In case it's slipped your mind, we are all on the same side."

Bodie and Doyle exchanged glances. Not a tune they were accustomed to hearing Cowley sing. "Well, what's keeping you two? Are you glued to that desk, Bodie?"

Bodie was on his feet in a flash. "No, sir. On our way, sir." He hustled a bemused Doyle out of the office.

"What's eating him?" Doyle said. He pulled his keys from his pocket and dangled them from his fingers.

"Got me. You drivin', are you?"

Doyle looked at his keys. "Yeah. OK. Car's round the front."

"You think he'd know better than to stick us with a milk run like this," Bodie grumbled as he climbed into the car.

"Better than nothing," Doyle said, deciding it would do no good to remind Bodie of their downgraded status. He started the engine, then stalled it getting out of the carpark. He felt oddly nervous—he hadn't been on assignment with Bodie since then. Since the rest of it either. "You could file a complaint."

"Not me, mate."

"Thought you always said you knew how to handle him?"

"That's right. And take my word, staying out of his way in this mood is it."

Traffic was light so early in the afternoon; Doyle paid little attention as he drove the short distance to their destination. "Bet the Minister's been on to him," he said after a few moments. "Budget time, y'know."

Bodie stared moodily out the window and didn't reply.

Doyle parked and got out of the car. When Bodie didn't move, he went round and rapped on the window. "Come on," he shouted through the glass. "Equal partners, remember? If I have to get writer's cramp filling out forms, so do you. Suffer and suffer alike."

Bodie grinned at him, then opened the door with a sudden shove, but Doyle was quicker and dodged it. "All right," Bodie said. "Maybe the walk will keep my circulation going."

The first house was the corner of a row of old terrace houses, whose most notable feature was 'cosy bay window with picturesque view'. They quickly rejected it as unsuitable. Too many entrances and exits, and the bay window would be a nightmare to secure. The second looked more promising; a sturdy one-story detached house with a wooden fence encircling the whole property.

Inside, the house was clean and well-kept. Except for a fine layer of dust in the comers and window sills, the previous tenants might have left early this morning. Could use a paint job, though, Doyle thought. Two bedrooms, sitting room, kitchen, bathroom; windows set small and high and easy to bar if necessary. Sunlight slanted in and made bright patches amid the shadows.

He walked slowly through the house, aware of Bodie's silent presence mirroring his actions; aware too, that they were alone together for the first time in days. Don't be ridiculous, he told himself.

Only the front window presented any complications, but it could easily be covered from any point in the sitting room. The walls were solid, giving back a muffled boom as he thumped them; back door, front door, connecting doors were all stable; would need to be fitted with an alarm system of course, otherwise the house suited the requirements quite nicely. He glanced at Bodie to see if he had come to the same conclusion.

"Looks good," Bodie said. "Let's try a few drills, eh, Doyle? Bit of fun."

About to make a similar suggestion, Doyle nodded. They took it by turns attempting to sneak up on, break into, or hide out in, the small house while the other stood guard, ending up an hour or so later sitting side by side on the kitchen floor, catching their breath.

It was all perfectly normal. Too normal. When you thought about it.

"Dry work," Doyle said into the silence. "Should've stopped off on the way here."

Bodie stifled a sneeze. "Bloody dust." He rested his head against the wall and closed his eyes. His skin was slightly flushed from the heat.

Doyle leant in closer to him.

"All right, all right, you're thirsty," Bodie said without opening his eyes. "In a minute."

A car drove by. Neighbours coming home. The pool of reflected sunlight under the window had stretched into a narrow beam, crept up to burnish the tan of Bodie's shoes.

Try again.

"Bodie—"

"What do you want now?" Bodie opened his eyes lazily. "Never give a man any peace, you."

Doyle blinked in surprise—what did he want? If anything.

"Gonna break my heart one of these days," Bodie said in a near-whisper. "Aren't you?" A tiny vein twitched at his temple. He tilted his head expectantly, as if waiting for something.

Under that fixed stare, Doyle floundered for words, embarrassed for no reason, which irritated him. He jumped to his feet. "Let's go then."

Bodie's eyes narrowed, then he sighed and looked away. "Yeah, right." He stood and brushed the dust from his trousers and stalked off.

Doyle trailed after, feeling aggrieved by the whole thing; what was wrong with Bodie, anyway? You couldn't win, could you.

Bodie maintained a sullen silence Doyle knew better than to trespass upon for a good quarter-hour, when his good humour resurfaced abruptly. "Buy you dinner?"

"Sure you don't want some peace instead?"

"Now be nice, or I'll take my generous offer elsewhere."

"Fine, you don't have to twist my arm."

They had an ordinary meal at an ordinary pub, talked about ordinary things, debating the pros and cons of the house mainly, played a round of darts with a few of regulars, laughing, joking, trading insults.

All normal.  All fun, easy, comfortable.  Like always.

And all, subtly, wrong.

"—who d'you fancy on the 14th, then?"

"What?" Doyle looked up, distracted by the buzz of voices all round, the clink of glassware.

"The match, berk, who d'you fancy?"

"Hadn't thought about it."

"You comin' down with something?" Bodie said in mock-concern.  "Oh, I see, his mind is on loftier matters."

"Not funny."

"You're about as much company as a wet dishrag, Doyle."

"Sorry." Doyle drained his glass. Had there ever been a time when he could sit across a table from Bodie and tell him true things about his life? About his feelings and the melancholy encrusting his soul like a scab he always picked open? Or was it no more than a story he told himself?

He got up to order another pint. How could Bodie chatter on so blithely as if nothing had changed between them?

"What'll you have, love?"

"Sorry?" He stared at the woman behind the counter, took in the lines round her eyes, the too-bright dress. "No," he said, "never mind." He went back to the table.

"Drink up, we're leaving."

Bodie rolled his eyes, but obeyed.

Doyle fished out his bank book for his extra money and tossed a few notes on the table. In the carpark, he handed Bodie his car keys. "Drop me at my flat, OK?"

"Drop you at your flat..."

"It's closer," Doyle said patiently. "You can pick me up in the morning."

Bodie made an exaggerated show of looking over his shoulder.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Checking to see if someone embroidered 'chauffeur-for-hire' on my jacket while I wasn't looking."

"You're a laugh a minute, aren't you? Come on." Doyle settled himself in the passenger seat. He dozed off to the comforting rumble of the motor, waking only when Bodie shook him. Nearly home. He yawned.

They rounded the last corner and Bodie pulled up next to another car, left the engine idling. Doyle already had the door open and hopped out immediately. "G'night," he said. The sound of the motor faded as he went on up to the main door. Standing there sorting out keys, he felt a prickling in the back of his head as if someone were watching him and turned. No one. He unlocked the door and was about to go inside when a hand touched his shoulder.

He whirled. Bodie stood behind him, gazing at him without expression.

"You forgot this." Bodie held out a small black object. His bank book.

Doyle held out his hand for it. He looked down the street, saw his car parked a few doors down. Bodie was still watching him steadily.

 

_Bodie watched him all through the night._

 

He stood tapping the leather cover against his hand, then shoved it in his pocket and pushed the door further open; gestured Bodie to enter, and followed him up the stairs.

Bodie headed straight for the bedroom. By the time Doyle caught him up, he was buried under the covers.

Too tired to object, Doyle got in beside him, but slept fitfully, troubled by fragmented dreams in which he was clutching at people, things; he opened his eyes. Moonlight wavered through the curtains, and he felt fragile, as if the waxing moon were siphoning his strength, and Bodie was a spectre in the dark.  He shivered.

"Shh," Bodie said, "there now," and stroked his forehead.

"'Come you're still awake?" Doyle said sleepily.

"Can't sleep," Bodie said. "Restless."

"Oh." Doyle went back to sleep under Bodie's steady gaze, sensing that Bodie watched him all through the night.

 

 

VII.

 

DOYLE FUMBLED with the seat release of the Escort, cursing when it jammed. He'd never understood why Bodie, with his longer legs, always insisted on pulling the seat so close to the steering wheel that his knees were practically touching it. He told him so, finally managing to slide the seat back far enough to stretch cramped thighs.

"That's the last time I let you use my car. Wassamatter, your mother never tell you to return things to people the way they left 'em?" he added.

Bodie raised a disdainful eyebrow. "Some of us prefer to have control of the car when we're driving, instead of letting it control us. An' it's not yours anyway, belongs to CI5."

Doyle sighed.

Bloody CI5. Action, thrills, heroic deeds, ha. One dull day after another, each so much alike he couldn't tell them apart. Oh, there was no more hanging about HQ, Cowley had them busy enough all right, providing a bit of back-up here, delivering supplies to a pair of agents on a round-the-clock stake-out, but thrilling it wasn't, and today was no exception. A standard tail and report back job, though the woman they were following had been inside the restaurant so long he was beginning to wonder if she'd skipped out the back. He let his dark glasses slide down his nose and peered at his partner.

They seemed to get on as well as ever; each assignment showed the team still functioning smoothly and efficiently.

Doyle stayed on edge anyway.

Bodie appeared at his flat sporadically, gliding into Doyle's bed as if it were his right. Doyle hadn't any notion of what to say; and Bodie—well, Bodie never had much to say for himself, had he?

He ought to put a stop to it; he would, sooner or later. The whole thing was absurd.

He wound his window down and gingerly rested his arm in the opening. The sun bore down on his elbow with the hot kiss of metal. If Cowley expected this series of low grade assignments to revive his flagging morale he'd better think again.

Wouldn't mind so much if it wasn't so damn hot. The brief rainstorm last week brought only temporary relief. Record heat, so the news said.

He wiped his cheek on his shirt sleeve.

Sublimely indifferent to Doyle's discomfort, Bodie slumped in his seat, eyes closed, as if he hadn't a care in the world.

"Wake up." He plucked Bodie's sleeve. "Come on, 's my turn to sleep."

Bodie opened first one eye and then the other. "I wasn't sleeping."

"Could have fooled me. Your snoring was loud enough to wake the dead."

"Was not."

"Heard it myself, didn't I?"

Bodie clucked his tongue. "Getting cranky without our nap, are we? Never mind, son, you go ahead and sleep. I'll keep the big bad wolves away."

Doyle wriggled in the seat His glasses kept slipping down and poking him; finally he put them in his pocket.

"How about opening your window?" he said after a few minutes.

"What for?"

"It's a bit rank in here." He sniffed pointedly, inhaled a whiff of Bodie's aftershave. The scent seemed to cling to his skin all the time now. It was all right on Bodie, but Doyle had come to hate artificial smells on his own body, and the constant reminder drove him to distraction.

Bodie took off his jacket and deposited it in the back seat, stowing his gun in the door pocket. The red shirt he was wearing looked distinctly wilted, and his hair hung in limp spikes on his forehead.

"Come on, open the window," Doyle said.

The window slid down about an inch.

"Big help, that is."

"I'm sensitive to draughts."

"In this weather? You must be joking."

"I mean the kind that whistle through your chest." At Doyle's snort of derision, he went on, "I'm a perfect target my side."

Doyle looked across the street to the restaurant, through the blinding glare from the rapidly setting sun, "And you think that little bit of glass is going to protect you?"

"Might slow it down a bit."

"All right, all right, point taken." Doyle settled himself as best he could, resting his elbows on the steering wheel.

His thoughts bounced randomly from idea to idea.

"Say, what's Cowley got on this bird anyway?" he said at last, voicing the question that had been running through his mind all day.

"Drugs," Bodie said with calm omniscience.

"Didn't look like a pusher to me."

"'S a possible lead to something."

"How come you know so much about it?"

"I snooped."

"Wasted in this job, you are, mate."

Another drug ring. Or maybe it was a lone wholesaler? Cowley must be getting desperate, this kind of routine investigation belonged more properly to the narcotics squad. He wondered if the woman was a user, maybe why she hadn't caught on to them tailing her. Be hard for her if she was. Doyle had always felt a strange sympathy for drug addicts; he understood the need to escape from an intolerable existence into a world where fairy tales were real and happiness of a sort was attainable. It was precisely that sympathy that made him a top-notch undercover man—he knew how they reasoned. If you could call it reasoning.

Beside him, Bodie started humming a popular song to himself.

Doyle stood it as long as he could. "Knock it off."

"What?"

"The serenade. Knock it off."

"Christ, Doyle. What's the fuckin' matter with you tonight?"

"It's late and it's hot and I'm tired. An' the last thing I want is your rendition of top forty songs I don't even like when they're in tune."

Bodie obliged, lapsing back into the blanket of silence he'd surrounded himself with all day.

Doyle remembered a time when a tail job like this was the occasion of quiet conversation, deep philosophical speculation about the merits of air hostesses versus cocktail waitresses interspersed with much hilarity. Must have been two other fellows.

Didn't know why he cared, Doyle thought crossly.

It wasn't as if he hadn't heard it all a thousand times. Unless they were on a case, their talk ran in well-worn grooves, carved deep by twelve years of working closely together. He could usually tell what Bodie was thinking from his manner, and judging by the ease with which Bodie finished sentences for him, so could he.

Even the attraction of matching wits had long since faded. Insult for insult, parry for parry, he could keep up his end of the banter with a fraction of his attention.

He opened his eyes, nearly jumped out of his skin. Bodie's face loomed over him.

"What are you staring at?"

"You." Bodie gave him a beatific smile.

"What in gods name for?"

"I want to."

"Well, don't," Doyle snapped. "I don't like being watched."

Bodie ignored this and carried on studying him, intent as a hawk. "You look like an angel," he said at last.

Doyle tossed him a incredulous stare. That Bodie was a little off, everyone who knew him accepted, but this was weird even for him.

"A fallen angel," Bodie amended. "I never took proper notice before." He gripped Doyle's chin in his hand and turned his face left and then right, inspecting it as for flaws. "Oh, yeah. Beautiful. All eyes and cheekbones and halo of hair. But not quite perfect...a fallen angel, that's it." His eyes danced with mischief. "And I've got you right here in my palm."

Doyle had submitted docilely enough, but now he pushed Bodie's arm off. "Daft," he said, shaking his head, "gonna cart you away pretty soon, they are."

He rearranged his position again, let his lids fall closed, not sure whether to be disturbed or charmed.

A sharp jab to his ribs snapped him alert.  "Doyle."

"What now, for chrissakes?"

"Over there."

Doyle squinted. The dark maroon sedan looked black in the twilight. He made out the registration. "Wasn't that the same car—"

"We saw outside the bakery this afternoon, yeah, that's what I thought," Bodie said and drew his gun.

Doyle was about to open the door when Bodie put a hand on his shoulder, holding him back. "You stay here. I'll take care of it."

"What's got into you?"

"Wouldn't want you to get shot, would we?" Bodie grinned.  "After all you're driving."

"When I need a keeper, I'll let you know," Doyle said, and pushed the restraining hand away.

The other car roared into life and sped off.

Doyle gave half a second's thought to disobeying Cowley's order to stay put, but yanked the keys from the ignition. "Pity," he said pointedly, "Coulda used some action."

With a grimace, Bodie pulled his door shut, locking it. Then he doubled over, clutching at his chest.

Instantly concerned, Doyle grabbed his shoulders.

"What's the matter?"

"It's me heart, you know, doctor said—"

"Bodie!"

The whites of his eyes glinted as they only do in extreme terror or in laughter. "Can't take all this excitement."

Doyle shoved him, hard, against the door frame.

Bodie sat up again, bubbling over with laughter. "Should have seen your face," he said. "How'd you get into this business anyway, you're as gullible as a schoolboy, mate."

"Oh, nice," Doyle said shortly. "You're goin' to cry wolf once too often, sunshine."

Bodie shrugged.

After reporting the incident to HQ, they fell silent again. The street lamp overhead flashed on and Doyle stole a glance at Bodie. He appeared to be dozing, but he was still smiling to himself in private amusement. He had his gun out on his knee, hand laid casually atop it, index finger poised above the trigger.

Doyle examined the hand with dispassionate interest. Corded veins stood out in relief on weathered skin, bisected with a white scar—from breaking a car window, Doyle remembered—he admired the symmetry of square fingers, the heavy calluses a peculiar contrast with faultlessly manicured nails—where the hell did Bodie find time for that—neat and sturdy, and ruthless. Like everything else about Bodie.

Predator's hands; appropriate for a man whose amiable veneer of civilisation was thin at the best of times.

Yet those were the same hands that had searched his body as if they would learn every secret it owned by touch. Doyle felt a flush start up on his cheeks at the image, grateful for the concealing twilight. He fought vainly to reconcile his warring impressions, could not, found he didn't much care at the moment.

He covered the hand with his own and looked at Bodie's face, hesitating. "You comin' home with me?" he asked softly.  It was the first time either one of them had

overtly acknowledged the change in their relationship.

All Bodie's cheer evaporated, his eyes narrowed, and his mouth set itself in a tight accusing line. "Whatever gave you that idea?"

Doyle glared at him. "Oh, I don't know," he said, loading on the sarcasm. "Must be the full moon or something." He pulled his hand back and opened the car door. "I'm goin' to check on our lady friend; wait here," slamming the door with enough force to rattle the car.

Under pretence of needing to use the loo, he strolled through the restaurant, made a thorough survey of the diners. A sea of strangers, glimpses of faces giving away moods, desires—he spotted the target quickly, then decided that it wasn't so much of pretence after all and ducked into the gents.

A rather forlorn and bedraggled figure confronted him in the mirror as he washed his hands. He wrenched the tap off and watched the water spiral down the drain.

He went back outside. Twilight had deepened into night spattered by the white sodium glare of street lights.

On the kerb in front of the restaurant something glistened; he stooped to pick it up. A vial. Milky crystals straggled at the rim. He put one under his tongue. Crack—purified cocaine. Supposed to be an American vice, the latest novelty; a quick, cheap high, an instantaneous rush of ecstasy so intense it immobilised the user. The stuff dreams were made of. But now, looking at the broken vial, he saw the shattering of illusions made all the more painful by their fleeting promise.

He thrust the vial into his pocket; Cowley would want it.

The quiet side-street was completely empty except for the gold Capri. Bodie had wound the window down at last, elbow leaning on the frame, head bowed into his hand.

Doyle felt the last of his anger drain away. They finished out the shift in silence.

 

VIII.

 

"COOL," HE SAID, "You got to stay cool." Familiar voice, no, this man was a stranger, never met him before. He ought to remember, dangerous to forget things—it was so—damn—hot—The voice kept talking but Doyle was too hot to think, his mind a feverish blur of light and colour. A blast of cold air hit him, as if he'd opened the door of a meat-locker, seeming to emanate from the stranger. Doyle was so hot, clutchingly, sweating, suffocatingly hot, he wanted desperately to slide into that blessed cold. He moved nearer, tried to touch this ice-cold stranger.

The dream faded gently, leaving nothing save a phantom image of coolness. He drifted on, suspended between sleeping and waking, almost aware of waiting. The sound of his heart invaded his quiet room like a prowler. He jerked at the sheet covering him, felt a tug at his neck, followed by a loud snap, and his silver chain slid into the hollow of his throat.

He stared at the metal glinting in the glow of the clock, then crumpled it up and let it fall to the floor. Bloody thing was giving him a rash anyway.

There was a slight clicking as the clock turned over; it had gone two already. He patted the bed beside him.

Empty.

He twisted round in the bed. The sheets under him were soaked, clammy with sweat. He rolled to the other side. No use. He closed his eyes, listened to the blood throb in his temples.

He never did get back to sleep.

He surveyed the group of five next morning with sour eyes. Four men, one woman, all standing about in varying degrees of nonchalance, but Doyle sensed leashed anticipation in each one of them.

Danger, adventure, excitement—oh, he'd felt that way when he signed on. Bet they'd be surprised to find out that even adventure became a routine and that danger was simply a matter of requisitioning more ammunition, filling out more forms, spending more days at the range to perfect your aim, and the biggest excitement was being dressed down by Cowley.

Five pairs of alert eyes engraved themselves on his forehead.

But his gaze went over their faces, to the graffiti-scrawled wall. Let them stew for a while, he thought, lesson one: outwaiting your adversary.

He hadn't any real faith in the idea of teaching, any case. He'd learnt by doing, hadn't he? by watching Cowley, by trying different techniques, him and Bodie.

Judgement was the thing, the instinct for weakness, for the hidden flaw—judgement, when to wield the stiletto of subtlety, when to wade in with the club of intimidation, when to hold off, when to move in for the kill—judgement could not be taught.

Someone coughed discreetly.

Doyle thrust his hands in his pockets and made a show of turning his back. They were going to be even more surprised when he was done with them. The real work of CI5 went on here, in these vault-like rooms with cold concrete floors and flickering incandescent bulbs.

They told you—No, Cowley told you—that your place was on the street, to get them before they got you. Wasn't even the half of it. Didn't do much good to catch the villains if you had to let them go again.

Information, that was CI5's trade secret, the key to it all—and there was nothing so very glamorous in scaring a man so badly he'd tell you anything rather than undergo another second of the tortures only imagination could provide.

Or occasionally, those of reality. He remembered the questioning of Franz Myer, particularly nasty, he and Bodie and Cowley taking it by turns, subtlety having failed, drugs, blows, it went on for days. But Cowley would have his answers.

In the end, they drained Myer dry, the three of them. And so help him, he had enjoyed it, as much as Bodie, perhaps, wringing every last drop from that poisonous mind. You found out quickly how thin was the line that separated you from them—the discipline of the service, and nothing more.

The real danger of CI5 was here, the risk of becoming what one hated, committing the unforgivable act, in the slow erosion of heart and soul, the lies that could never be unsaid.

A shudder went through him. He fancied for a moment the room haunted by the fear and the hatred it had witnessed. The echoes of those who had broken here damped by the white-washed walls, he could visualise blood oozing through the cracks in the concrete floor, blood of the innocent as well as the guilty...

Idealistic! Not him, not after the things he'd seen and done in this room.

He rounded on his charges, smiling with a kind of savage tenderness he knew they mistook for friendliness. "Well," he said. "Let's begin by introducing ourselves, shall we?" Lesson two: questioning friendly witnesses. Or: You never find something if you're not looking.

He listened carefully to each one, how they described themselves and their backgrounds, their reasons spoken and unspoken, for applying to CI5. Not so much younger than he, but untouched, still pure, pure of heart and he experienced a pang of the bitterest envy, for such sweet conviction and sureness of purpose.

They'd learn. He had.

By the end of the day they hated him.

There were no more outside assignments, low-priority or otherwise; Cowley put all his other activities on hold, informing Doyle that he was assigned to administrative work until further notice.

He neither saw nor heard from Bodie the rest of the week. It was as though he had vanished from the face of the earth, although Doyle did hear the echo of his voice once on the stairs.

Doyle didn't bother to look for him. When Bodie didn't want to be found, there was no way even Doyle's considerable detective skills could ferret him out. And if he did track him down, what then?

'Look, here, mate, what's the meaning of this?'

Or, 'Bodie, I can't sleep for wondering where you've been.'

Bodie would laugh himself sick. And why not? It was an experiment, a stopgap, nothing more. He hadn't expected anything else, had he? So why should Bodie be any different? He'd probably got himself another girlfriend, that was all. Time to straighten up and stop moping about like a jilted bride.

The unanswered questions hounded his thoughts by day and his sleep by night. He refused to give in to them. Cowley filled his afternoons with routine paperwork, and evenings he returned to the Midland case, doggedly pursuing his research far into the nights.

Anything was better than thinking.

The days dragged on, merging one into another as he pushed and pulled the five fledgeling agents through the gentle art of interrogation.

This week promised more of the same; yesterday Cowley handed him another stack of paper. He sighed and pulled the top folder and set to work.

He wished he'd never let Bodie talk him into making it together in the first place. At least before he'd achieved some sort of peace with himself. Survival, too, was an art, which required a dulling of the feelings, a glazing of the soul; right and wrong didn't enter much into it. But he couldn't help wondering... How much was too much?

His pencil scratched away, logging evidence, follow-up tapes of witness interviews from last month's bomb threat at the Brazilian embassy.

All kinds of feelings he'd thought he'd come to terms with years ago rose up like wraiths, sickening fears of dying a painful bloody death in defence of some political manoeuvre he couldn't justify if he tried, nagging unfocussed guilt for the crimes he'd committed in the name of the law, but mainly a sense of futility.

Once upon a time, he would have talked himself out to Bodie, purged the uncleanness from his soul, and then they would find some girls maybe, and gone dancing, or drinking, and have a fresh start in the morning.

He signed his name to the report.

Yes, that was what bothered him most; the hope he had nourished in a secret corner of his heart, that it would draw them closer, those strange sweet grapplings in the dark, when in fact it was driving them apart.

 

 

IX.

 

AT THE END of the week Cowley tapped him on the way to Records and pronounced his satisfaction with Doyle's diligence—if only he knew, Doyle thought—and rewarded him with a coveted free weekend.

"I wanted to finish my report on Midland—" Doyle began, but Cowley cut him off.

"Now, we'll hear no more about that until you come back. I appreciate your efforts, 4/5," he said, "but even Rome wasn't built in day, and you're not quite in their league." He chuckled as if he had made a joke. "There's only an off-chance of something in it for us anyway. Have you found anything?"

Routine enquiries had turned up the fact that the same directors sat on the boards of both banks, Doyle told him, which could mean an inside job. Cowley dismissed his arguments with a peremptory wave. "That's not enough for us go on, not now."

"These weapons make it CI5 business," Doyle said and tossed a handful of shells on the desk.

Cowley picked them up, rolled them in his palm. "Very well. But if there's a whiff of trouble, any pressure from the Home Office, you're to drop it."

"I think it's time for the personal touch. I'd like to go down next week, do a bit of nosing about."

"Absolutely not," Cowley said. "I warned you, Doyle, we have to tread lightly. Questions are being raised in the House about our authority, nothing major, you understand, but for the moment we must keep our own doorstep clean. Unless you prove a stronger connection, we can't move on it."

"There're always questions," Doyle said, when a thought occurred to him. "We're not being set up for a board of inquiry, are we?"

Cowley's face set into grim lines. "The possibility has been mentioned; of more concern is the proposition that CI5 merely duplicate the work of other agencies. Special Branch can handle our protective services, MI5 our internal security investigations, MI6 our foreign problems, the SAS our assault operations, the Yard's Drug and Fraud Squads those areas. In short, we are redundant."

After a moment's reflection, Doyle said, "And are we redundant?"

"In a manner of speaking." Cowley ran a hand over his hair. "Unfortunately the reasoning will sound quite plausible to most people. CI5 operate in all those areas simultaneously, thus only CI5 are equipped to handle situations which are neither clear-cut enough to fall under one department or another, nor simple enough for the police. It is our unique strength." He stared off into the distance for a moment, then his face relaxed. "But that trouble can await another day," he said and smiled at Doyle. "Come on, lad, come and have a drink before you go."

And that was that, Doyle realised, Cowley clearly intended the subject be closed.

He accepted the offer for harmony's sake, feeling Cowley's gaze probing him underneath his pleasant manner. "Doyle...I've been wondering if something is bothering you. Something in your personal life, I mean. If there's anything you'd care to discuss..."

Doyle adopted a puzzled look. "No, I'm fine. Everything's fine." It gave him the creeps every time he realised how closely Cowley watched all the agents while seemingly absorbed in his own affairs.

He got out of there as soon as possible.

For a change he found a parking spot nearby, noticing when he got out that, thank god, the temperature had dropped to something bearable. There was even a cool breeze ruffling his hair. He bathed and changed as if he were going out, though he had no plans for the evening. He curled up on the sofa to read, eventually dropping into a doze, broken by the sound of a car backfiring on the street below.

Unable to sleep again, he contemplated the stain on his ceiling for a time, deliberately avoiding looking at the telephone within easy reach. He wasn't about to waste the price of a phone call on the unfeeling bastard.

Be sensible, he told himself. They were breaking one of the foremost rules of CI5: Don't get too involved. Not with witnesses, not with suspects, and not with fellow agents.

Keep your private life private, and your mind on your work, that was one of the Cow's oft-repeated sayings. And if Cowley twigged, there'd be hell to pay. He'd split them up so fast it made Doyle's head spin just to think about it. For all his anger, Doyle didn't want that; Bodie was a good mate—well, most of the time—and he wasn't going to find a better partner at this late date. The very idea of going through a new one all over again, wearing down the rough edges until they could operate like two halves of a machine was enough to make him faintly nauseous. Nor did he fancy working solo, not his style. He needed someone to bounce ideas off, to relieve the inevitable tension that came with the job, to celebrate or commiserate with at the end of an op.

Without being aware of intention, he'd already collected his keys.

He jingled the keys in his hand, did a brief battle with his pride. Sod it, he'd enough of this waiting game. He was going to get it straight for once and for all. If Bodie laughed, let him. Doyle had never given a rap for anyone's opinion before, and he wasn't going to start now.

Halfway there, he realised he'd left his jacket and holster lying on the sofa. Fat lot of good his gun was when he kept forgetting to carry it.

As he stood outside Bodie's door, it occurred to him that Bodie might not be home. The car he usually drove was parked down the street, but Doyle couldn't tell if any lights were on or not. Or, worse, perhaps he was home, but not alone...

Tough. Whoever she was, she could wait. This was more important. He rang the bell before he could change his mind.

Amazingly, Bodie answered the door personally instead of using the intercom, dressed in a bathrobe. He stuck his head out, rubbing his hair with a towel, and broke into a delighted grin when he recognised Doyle. "My, don't we look nice. Where's the party?" looking Doyle up and down and adding, "And unarmed. Gettin' reckless in our old age, are we?"

Doyle ignored all this and pushed past him.

"I know," Bodie said, closing the door, "why don't you come in?"

"You on your own?" Doyle asked. Practised eyes took in every corner of the flat as if he expected to find someone skulking behind the furniture.

"Not any more, I'm not."

Doyle spun, about to snap out an angry retort, but Bodie's expression was entirely unconcerned. He regarded Doyle with an odd little half-smile, hands shoved in the pockets of his bathrobe.

White on white, Doyle thought inconsequentially, only the effect was spoiled by the sprinkling of black hairs forming a V at the base of his throat. Ought to shave them off, he'd never miss them.

Bodie slung the towel round his neck and went to the sideboard. "Drink?"

"No," Doyle said, thought the better of it, "Yes." He took the glass, drained it and silently handed it back to Bodie for a refill.

He glanced around the sitting room, empty save for a long white sofa and a table by the window. A Persian rug covered most of the polished wooden floor. One book case stood sentinel at the bedroom door. The only sign of habitation was a book splayed open on the third shelf, out of place among the neat rows.

Next to the shelf hung a display case for Bodie's collection of handguns, one of the few objects Doyle had seen before. Three Van Gogh prints adorned the wall behind him, he remembered, but they had been there when Bodie got the place. "How can you stand bare walls?" he'd asked him more than once.

"I believe in travelling light," Bodie had told him.

Glass in hand, Doyle balanced himself on the arm of the sofa.

Back to Doyle, Bodie said, "So, what can I do for you?"

"A bit late in the day for formality, isn't it?"

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, give it a rest, Bodie."

Bodie was quiet for a long time, then he squared his shoulders and turned to face Doyle, meeting his gaze with the ingenuous air he sometimes affected. "What's the problem?"

Doyle seriously considered going for him, but in the end satisfied himself with a frosty glare. "What do you think?"

Bodie took the towel from his neck and folded it neatly, laid it on the side board. "There's nothing to say. Cheers, mate." He tossed back his drink and poured another.

Doyle nodded thoughtfully. He raised his own glass as in a toast, then slowly tipped it to one side, watching the amber liquid run up the side to the rim. Would make a nasty stain on the white fabric.

He'd counted to two when Bodie held up his hand.

"All right, all right. I get the message."

Doyle righted the glass immediately, but a few drops landed on the sofa anyway. He took a sip, swirled the liquor round his mouth before swallowing it. "So," he said. "How've you been? Haven't seen you all week."

Bodie eyed him warily as he moved to sit at the opposite end of the sofa. "Fine. You?"

"Never better," Doyle said. He crossed his leg over his knee and fiddled with his shoelace. "Cowley keepin' you busy?"

There was a bark of derision from the other side of the room. "You can say that again. First I spend all bloody day trying to explain what a gun is for to a bunch of wets who ought to know already, then he's got me on after-hours surveillance every damn night. He's punishing me for my sins, I think."

"That bird?"

"Yeah."

Silence descended. Doyle took another sip of his drink. Now that he had Bodie's attention, he was afraid to say anything, as if to speak would destroy some invisible structure.

"I want to know what's happening with us," he said finally.

Bodie rolled his eyes. "We had it off a few times—so what. Don't make a production number out of it."

"And that's all it was to you."

"I needed something. So did you. End of conversation." He crossed his arms.

"I didn't need to get all stirred up for nothing," Doyle said.

Bodie shifted his feet, but he didn't say anything.

"You can't not talk about it."

As if to dispute that statement, Bodie's mouth compressed into a stubborn line.

Doyle quelled an incipient urge to smash the granite profile. He hated it when Bodie did the stone wall routine. He'd ran into that wall too many times to have any patience with him now. "What am I, just another conquest, a particularly bright feather in your cap? Surprised you even noticed me among the crowd."

"That is not the way it is and you know it." Bodie rapped out the words, lips barely moving as he spoke.

"What way is it, then?"

He might as well have saved his breath for all the response he got. He rubbed his hand across his face, pinched his nostrils together and thought about it. He tried another approach. "Come on, Bodie," he said softly. "After all we've been through together? You owe me the truth, at least."

Bodie turned to look at him at last, the whites of his eyes glinting ominously. "The truth?" A muscle twitched in his cheek. "The truth is—I was a little crazy that night, Ray, I wanted...it doesn't matter."

Doyle leant across the sofa. "It matters to me."

Bodie's gaze wavered under his, and fell.

Sensing weakness, Doyle homed in. "And what about the other times, eh, Bodie? How do you account for that?"

When Bodie spoke again his voice was soft and eminently reasonable. "Look, we felt like it. That's all."

"That's crap an' you know it.   Why now?"   He stood up and paced the length of the room, running his fingers through his hair. "Seems to me if that's all it was we would have felt like it before."

"'Course," Bodie's eyebrow twitched up in the suggestion of a leer, "I feel like it all the time."

"Do you," said Doyle.

"Yeah," Bodie said with grave simplicity. "There's no one like you, angelface."

"There's no one like anyone," Doyle snapped. "Don't play games with me, Bodie. I'm not one of your girlfriends, too blinded by your charms to know when I'm being made a fool of."

Bodie smiled, a wry, bitter smile. "Oh, that you're not. Blinded by my charms, I mean."

Doyle waited to see if he would go on, mouth outracing mind.

"Uh, uh, Ray," Bodie said, shaking his head. "Won't work."

"What?" Doyle said innocently enough.

"Don't give me that; you've got that gestapo gleam in your eye. Listen, it's just sex."

"It's not that simple."

"Why do you have to complicate it?"

Doyle's eyes strayed to a worn spot on the rug where the weave showed through. "Why do we say 'just sex', anyway?" he said to himself. "Might as well say ‘just the universe.'"

Bodie's head dropped to his chest. "I should have known."

"Eh?"

"I should have known you'd have to make a big deal."

"It was your idea, goddammit!"

Bodie finished his drink in one swallow. "Yeah, well, maybe it wasn't one of my brighter ideas."

"I have to admit, it's a little strange." Doyle gestured with his glass, oblivious to the danger of a spill. "Makes you wonder, we queer or something all these years or what?"

Bodie shrugged. "I don't care one way or the other."

"There's a surprise."

"Don't start that bit, Doyle."

"Don't start what bit?"

"You know what I mean. Just don't start, OK?"

Doyle had a good idea, but he was not about to be dismissed so easily. "That's the trouble with you, Bodie, you won't care about anything."

"How would you know? We don't all hang our feelings out to dry, all right?" He gave Doyle a curious, moody look. "Need to be a stranger to get your attention, anyway."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"Nothing. Listen, let's drop it, OK? 'S gettin' a bit boring."

Doyle lost the last shreds of his temper. "Well, I don't care either, but I'm not goin' to have you actin' like it was nothing, some cheap one-off in a back alley, do you understand me, Bodie?"

"Perfectly. I'm sure every last one of the neighbours understands as well," Bodie replied, arctic scorn freezing each syllable.

If Bodie had not been out of reach Doyle would have given in to his anger and punched him, something he had done but twice in all the years he had known him. Instead he smacked his glass onto the sideboard, causing a furious clatter among the bottles there.

His gaze travelled the room blindly, until it was snared by one of the prints. Huge butter-coloured flowers sprang in arrested animation from a vase, seeming to taunt him from the frame.

Bodie was staring into his empty glass as though he had discovered something of great interest at the bottom. Stray drops of water in his hair caught the light and reflected all the colours of the spectrum like polished diamonds.

He leant over and set the glass on the floor. The robe slipped from his shoulder as he did so, exposing the shallow swell of his chest.

Doyle was instantly, painfully aroused, contempt and desire twisting up his guts. Maybe Bodie was right. They shouldn't talk at all.

He took a deep breath. He walked over to Bodie and dropped to one knee in front of him.

When Bodie looked up, Doyle bent forward and kissed him.

Bodie's lips trembled under his; he turned his head to one side. Doyle simply put his tongue inside Bodie's ear and licked softly. Bodie gripped his shoulders and held him away, eyes wide and gleaming. "Don't," he said savagely, "don't."

"Oh, why not?" Doyle whispered, and kissed him again, heady excitement coursing through him when Bodie's mouth parted against his.

He sank down and Bodie's arms came round him; Bodie tasted warm and sweet with drink, and more, sweet with passion, as though Bodie were drawing life from his

mouth.

Abruptly Bodie pushed him off, and stood up.

Doyle remained where he was on the floor, one heel tucked under him, too keyed up to move. He rested his elbow on his knee and tried to subdue the anarchy of his emotions.

Bodie smiled wolfishly. "What's got into you, Doyle, anyone would think you actually wanted me."

"You're mad."

"As a hatter," Bodie confirmed. "Now, hop it." He turned his back.

Doyle rose slowly, brushing nonexistent dust off his trousers. "Yeah, 's always look don't touch with you, Bodie. 'Here I am, I'm beautiful, maybe I'll favour you with a smile or grace your bed with my presence, but you can't have me. After all there are so many deserving others in line, you can't expect me to disappoint them.'"

He stared at Bodie's rigid back. "Why am I talking to myself? Oh, never mind. 'Doesn't mean a thing.' I forgot."

Years of bitterness welled up and spilled out of him. "Well, it meant something to me. I thought it did to you as well."

Bodie's head whipped round, but his face was expressionless, his eyes dulled to blank blue slate. "I thought I could count on you to take it the way I'm taking it. Looks like I was mistaken."

"Looks like we both were."

"Looks that way."

Doyle thrust his hands in his pockets and kicked at the glass sitting on the floor. It rolled towards the edge of the rug. They both watched, hypnotised, as it hovered for several long seconds, then clanked onto the wood parquet Doyle looked up, then, but Bodie refused to meet his eyes; he fidgeted with the tie to his bathrobe.

After a minute, Doyle put a finger under his chin and forced his head up. "You really want me to go?"

"No," Bodie said. He ducked his head to escape Doyle's hand. "I don't know."

"For pity's sake, Bodie, make up your mind."

Bodie pulled his bathrobe closer, retied the tie.

"Stay or go?" Doyle persisted.

"What do you want, Ray?"

"That's a stupid question."

In a whirlwind of motion, Bodie grabbed him by the shoulders, bent forward so their eyes were on a level and stared at him.

Doyle stared back, wide and unblinking.

"Yeah, stupid," Bodie said. A few wayward strands escaped the neat cap of hair and curled on his brow. Doyle brushed them back, then slid his fingers across the join of shoulder to neck and kissed him there. Bodie sighed and his head fell forward onto Doyle's shoulder as though he was suddenly weary.

"Let me stay," Doyle whispered.

"You'll be sorry one day," Bodie said.

"Oh, yeah? You gonna make me?" Doyle mocked, but Bodie just shook his head slightly and pulled away. Doyle made a grab for him and they tumbled back on the sofa.

All at once free from strain, Doyle was laughing and panting as they wrestled for control. He had the advantage of leverage, though, and he used it unmercifully, planting himself firmly across Bodie's hips and pinning his arms with his knees.

With solemn deliberation he bent over and ran his tongue sloppily from Bodie's chin to forehead. He sat back on his heels and folded his arms across his chest, gave Bodie a self-satisfied smile. Bodie was laughing, too, his sides shaking against Doyle's thighs with it. Doyle graciously permitted him to the use of one arm to dry his face.

Briefly, he admired the bristly line of black lash casting a faint shadow on the eggshell pallor of cheek, then set about undoing the knots Bodie had put in the belt of his robe.

There was a rapid glimmer of blue as Bodie peeked out from under one eyelid to see what he was doing. He made no objection when Doyle split the fabric from shoulder to stomach, only sighed and stretched his arm over his head. The action made visible a thin white groove paralleling his ribs. Doyle traced it gently. "Where'd you get this? No, don't tell me," he said as Bodie opened his mouth, "Let me guess, Africa, right?"

"Belfast. Bullet grazed me; another inch and I'd've been dead."

Doyle found he was holding his breath; Bodie was reticent enough about his forays into the African bush, but he maintained a tomblike hush about his five-month tour of duty in Northern Ireland.  "IRA, was it?"

"Don't think the IRA recruits sixteen-year olds," Bodie said without opening his eyes. "Yet."

"Got to be seventeen at least," Doyle agreed. "So what happened?"

"I shot her."

"Her? You shot her..." Doyle echoed. "Just like that. Straight up?"

"Yeah, what do you think? And you'd've done the same." His mouth twisted. "Or maybe not...she was a pretty little thing. But I would have ripped her throat out if I'd've reached her. As it was I had to be satisfied with splattering her brains on the pavement."

"Bloody hell, Bodie."

Doyle had lost count of the number of men he'd killed in the course of his career, men and women both, pumped them full of government-issue ammunition with ruthless efficiency, but he made the surprising discovery he was capable yet of being shocked. Not so much by the words, as by the slow, bored tone, shorn of emotion.

Bodie's forehead creased. "An' you can stop lookin' at me like that, no, I don't have to see it, I know what you're thinkin'. Things happened there...When I said goodbye to Africa and got on a plane to come home, I thought nothing could ever be that bad again. I was wrong."

Doyle touched the scar again.

Bodie opened his eyes. "Hey, come on, this is depressin' the hell out of me." With a quick twist, he freed his other hand to grasp the top button of Doyle's shirt. "Got a better idea. May I?"

When Doyle didn't answer he unbuttoned the shirt and parted it to the waist.

Some unidentifiable emotion flickered across Bodie's face as Doyle caught his hand and pressed it to his chest, to the zigzag scarring under his own heart.

Mute, he stared at Bodie, alert for his reaction.

After a moment, Bodie dabbed the ridged flesh with hesitant fingers. "Nasty. I thought you were goin' to go and die without me, sunshine," he said soberly, "I would never have forgiven you if you had."

Doyle flipped the hand over and kissed the tender spot inside the wrist.

"You don't have to do that," Bodie said, husky.

"Tell me something I don't know."

"You're beautiful."

Doyle made a disgusted noise. "Cut it out. Look at this cheek bone, will you?"

"Never noticed," Bodie said with a blissful smile.

"Mind you, I'm not saying I'd break any mirrors," Doyle added, "I'm OK.  Ordinary, you know."

"The one thing you are not," said Bodie, "is ordinary." He sat up unexpectedly and Doyle lost his balance and fell backwards. Bodie took him by the hand, pulled him to his feet and led him, unresisting, into the bathroom.

He seized Doyle's shoulders and turned him to face the mirror. "There. Now look at yourself."

Doyle studied Bodie's image instead, the even features and sleekly muscled chest. "You're the one who's beautiful.  Or so you keep telling me."

Bodie looked himself over. "Yeah. I am," he said matter-of-factly. His gaze snapped back to Doyle. "You don't know how beautiful you are, do you?" answering himself, "No, you can't possibly. You look at yourself, your face goes dead. Not you at all. But if you could see yourself through my eyes—" His hands slid down Doyle's shoulders, fingers digging into his biceps. Doyle flexed them against his grip and Bodie smiled. "Close your eyes."

"What for?"

"Do as I say. Close your eyes."

Doyle closed his eyes.

"Let me show you," Bodie said into his ear, cool breath shivering across the nape of his neck.

His heart skipped a beat. "'S a bit over the top," he began, but Bodie covered his mouth.

Intensely aware of Bodie's presence, he tried to keep his thoughts from racing ahead, tried to keep his mind absolutely motionless.

He felt the lightest of tugs on his hair.

"Soft," Bodie said, "I don't understand it. Should be tangled, the way it looks, curls framin' your face like a copper halo, but you never look messy, somehow, just carefree." His fingertips wound through Doyle's hair to his temples, rubbed gently. "As though you don't belong here."

"And where do I belong?" Doyle couldn't help asking, expecting a sarcastic reply.

But Bodie was silent, tracing his eyebrows. "I don't know," he said at last. "Somewhere else. I used to watch you all the time, wonder what you were thinking."

"You did?" Doyle found the idea unsettling, but he was flattered in spite of himself.

"Yeah. You're something of a mystery, you know."

"Me? G'wan, Bodie, that's ridiculous."

"No, I mean it. Used to think, you let things get to you, get too involved. Conscience—it tears a man up inside. I don't know how you do it, but none of the filth we see ever affects your heart. You float above it all."

Doyle listened avidly; it was nonsense of course, but it thawed the numbed places inside his spirit nonetheless.

"I kept hoping maybe it would rub off on me," Bodie added, "No such luck, I'm too far gone for that..."

Doyle's skin tingled under the fingers sketching the planes of his face. "You never look the same two days in a row," Bodie's voice went on, bemused. "It's the light, I reckon, plays with your hair and across your cheekbones like a lover."

Warm lips touched his forehead, his eyelids, bestowing their warmth on each spot before moving on. They pressed the dented place on his cheek. "Thought you ugly at the beginning. Until the day you went after that German bomber—reminded me then of a woodcut I saw once in a museum, the angel of death."

From somewhere in Doyle's churning mind emerged wonder that Bodie had ever voluntarily stepped inside a museum, much less admired the art.

The voice went on, low and resonant. "And then you would smile, get this kind of fey gleam in your eyes, like you were looking down on the rest of us mere mortals and laughing." He turned Doyle's head and kissed the corner of his mouth, with a tenderness Doyle had never suspected he possessed.

His tongue outlined Doyle's upper lip, then slipped underneath, over his teeth, leaving his lips so sensitive to the air he nearly cried out when Bodie's mouth deserted him. Bodie held the sides of his face and turned him back.

"There, now open your eyes."

Doyle obeyed.

He scarcely recognised himself. Where was the grim, hard-faced man he saw every day? Those wide-startled eyes, did they belong to him? No, his eyes were cool, his smile ironic, as befitted a man who regularly consorted with corruption.

But the face in the mirror seemed to hold captive a timeless purity.

Elegantly carved nostrils flared delicately to catch some fleeting fragrance, the clean smell of Bodie's hair perhaps, tawny skin glowed taut over cheekbones to a firm and chiselled mouth, Upline etched clearly, sensuously.

Over his shoulder, he saw the tiled bath wall, cracked and chipped in a dozen places, badly mended. Above that, faded blue wallpaper. He felt like a visitor to a strange country, with guide equally alien. His attention wandered to the white-robed figure beside him.

"That's more like it," Bodie whispered. "Your eyes...they're green and gray, really green, not hazel or brown...I could lose myself in your eyes, they're like seafoam, so serene and detached...so pure...like you're listening to music no one else can hear."

He turned Doyle's head to meet his eyes directly. "You're so fucking beautiful," he said, and his voice shook, the harsh contours of his face sweetened by a tremulous smile. "I never get tired of looking at you."

  

_...to hold captive--_

_\--a timeless purity._

__

 For a minute he was tempted by Bodie's adoring eyes, for a minute he let himself believe the things Bodie had said, what he seemed to say. Then the sheer delusion of it all struck him.

He wasn't pure, never could be again. Maybe never had been.

The besotted expression on Bodie's face did nothing to console him. It was just part of the delusion. "This is crazy," he snarled. "I'm crazy, for listening to you. I thought it was just sex, Bodie."

"Yeah," Bodie said. The smile flickered and transformed itself into a grimace. "Yeah, I did say that, didn't I?"

Doyle yanked his shirt loose from his jeans, aware of the bitter sting of disappointment. "Let's get on with it, then." Bodie helped him out of the shirt, draped it over the bath, shrugged out of his robe and let it fall to the ground. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again, squatted and untied Doyle' shoes, lifting first one foot and then the other to slide mem off. "I suppose you know your socks don't match," he remarked, then sighed and took them off as well.

"If you kiss my feet, I'll kill you," Doyle said. He undid his jeans himself, wiggled them down his hips. Bodie came to his assistance.

Strong hands slid down Doyle's thighs, gripped hard, almost painfully. "Like steel bands," Bodie said and touched his lips to the oblong pucker left by another bullet long ago.

At his urging Doyle stepped out of his jeans.

Bodie sat back on his haunches and looked him up and down with frowning intentness. He rose and stood behind Doyle once more. "You are beautiful," he said with a belligerent glare at Doyle's reflection. "No matter what you think."

His face softened again as he skimmed the flying curve of collarbone with his fingertips. "Can't get over it," he said, and there was real awe in his tone, "how someone can be so vulnerable and so tough at the same time."

Doyle shivered a little. OK, Bodie's fascination for him was ludicrous, he told himself, but where was the harm in it? And no one, no woman, had ever said he was beautiful, had ever talked to him like this. He extinguished the desire to resist, and waited.

He felt gooseflesh start up when Bodie nuzzled his neck. He leant into the other man, raised his arm to press him closer, pleased by the contrast between them, the lithe sweep of his body tanned next to Bodie's white-skinned sturdiness.

"What happened to that little silver chain you used to wear?" Bodie asked, touching the hollow in his throat.

"Broke," Doyle said. Like so many other things.

Bodie rested his chin in the curve of his shoulder. His hands glided over Doyle's chest. "Pretty," he said, fluffing his chest hair, "soft and neat, a dark diamond to hide your heart." He glanced up from under his lashes, eyes holding Doyle's a moment, then he grinned. "Bit flowery, that, didn't think I had it in me, did you?"

Doyle grinned back and shook his head.

Bodie lowered his eyes as if suddenly shy, and smoothed the hair back out. "Do you see how it points towards your nipples," he said conversationally, "or notice how they stand out through your clothes, no, you don't see that, do you?" He tapped them softly.

A thrill shot straight to Doyle's groin.

He sucked in his breath, expanding his chest outwards into the touch, felt his nipples come to life and stiffen as Bodie pinched gently. Another thrill succeeded the first, then another, beginning the tell-tale heaviness that inevitably preceded erection.

"That's great," he managed, "never felt anything like it."

There was an earthy chuckle in his ear and Bodie continued to rub in tiny circles. "Gotta have the right technique," he said smugly. "Women, they don't ever bother to learn it unless you show 'em." His mirror-image raised a rakish eyebrow at Doyle, then he planted a series of wet kisses down Doyle's neck.

The bombardment of sensation made the room gyrate; Doyle closed his eyes and listened to coaxing timbre of Bodie's deep voice.

"Bet you don't see the way your ribs arch over your belly, either, so flat and strong and smooth," his hands followed his voice, "or the cant of your hips, specially when you thrust them to one side the way you do." His hands curved round Doyle's buttocks and squeezed, "sweet and round and perfect." His fingers dipped into the cleft, and Doyle sighed at the intimate touch, then one hand crept between his thighs, "And here, soft."

The other hand stole over the front of Doyle's hips to cradle his erection.

Doyle sighed again. Seduced by Bodie's worship of his body, he no longer found it strange, only terribly sweet and exciting.

"You even have a beautiful cock, you know," Bodie said, voice dropping to a murmur, "Like butterfly wings." His fingers ran the length of it, "but hard underneath, with such a sexy little curve," his fingers closed round the shaft, "yeah, gorgeous, want to kiss it."

Doyle's eyes flew open at that and stared enthralled at himself, unconscious of any vanity in it, his earlier disillusionment forgotten. He was beautiful; mouth half-parted to reveal white gleam of teeth, eyebrows arched delicately up, eyes dreamy and heavy-lidded, cheeks flushed with arousal and pressed to Bodie's dark head. He saw in himself the image of sexual abandon and he loved that image.

He watched the motions of Bodie's hands petting him, the sight arousing him further.

Bodie's lashes lifted, and his gaze met Doyle's. He straightened and turned Doyle to face him. "What do you want?" he said. "I'll do anything you want—only you have to tell me."

His fingers brushed Doyle's gently throbbing erection. Doyle pushed at his head, but Bodie shook his hand off.

He lifted Doyle's chin. "Tell me."

His eyes were so close Doyle could see all the subtle shades of blue they owned, the little cobalt flecks, the azure closest to the brilliant black pupils, deep indigo round the rim of the iris. "I want you to suck me off," he whispered at last.

Bodie nodded. "That's better," he said, then with blurring speed he was on his knees and Doyle engulfed in his mouth.

He groaned and his eyes fell shut again as Bodie's teeth raked him in a cruelly joyous way.

Bodie set about exploring his cock with a leisurely tongue, licked daintily at the underside, swirled round the tip, darted now and again to the flange until Doyle was frantic.

"Stop muckin' about, Bodie," he said, half-demanding, half-pleading, "come on, do it, suck me."

The teasing lips closed tight and sweet, drew him in and began in earnest. He gripped the cold porcelain of the washbasin to steady himself, put his other hand on the back of Bodie's head to encourage him.

Nothing in his most graphic fantasies prepared him for the sensation of Bodie's mouth round him, vastly different from a woman's mouth. Harder, stronger, Jesus, all that strength given to satisfy his desire—just plain bloody incredible.

He glanced at the mirror, caught his own amazement and pleasure. He thrust his shoulders back and looked at them that way, watching his cock appear and disappear in seeming duality, wildly excited by Bodie's submissive posture. It was fantastic, better than he had imagined, Bodie's mouth so hot and wet and powerful he could not bear it. He came in a convulsive gush and a muttered curse.

Bodie held him through his thrashing, until Doyle was drained, then laid his cheek against Doyle's softening flesh and sighed.

Head swimming, Doyle looked down at him, stroked his hair. "You're good at that."

"I'm a man of many hidden talents," Bodie informed him. He stood up.

Doyle held his face and kissed him, put all his gratitude and affection for him into it, tasting the salt, bitter taste of himself on Bodie's tongue.

Bodie pulled him close, with firm hands bent his hips inward, his erection pushing insistently at Doyle's belly. Doyle put his hand on it, squeezed, and would have gone to his knees, but Bodie's hand on his elbow stayed him. "No."

"Don't you want me to get you off?" Doyle asked, puzzled.

"Not like that," Bodie said. He ran a finger down Doyle's back to the end of his spine, paused, gave him a long searching look. "I want you," he said. "Not going to say no, are you?"

The penny dropped. "Oh," Doyle said. He thought about it, decided he didn't mind the idea, not much, though it frightened him a bit; he'd tried it once, and found it rather unpleasant. "OK," he said. "But I hate you beatin' round the bush. Don't tell me you want me. Tell me you want to fuck me."

Bodie tilted his head, considering, then grinned impudently. "Right. I want to fuck you."

Doyle smiled at him.

Bodie caught his breath, his eyes widened as though he felt a sudden stab of pain. He bent forward, but Doyle fended him off. "Wait a minute, sunshine, I've just thought of something—do we know how to do this? I mean, it could be dangerous, y'know."

Without taking his eyes from Doyle, Bodie reached back to the cabinet and from somewhere produced a bottle of lotion, offered it to his inspection.

"S'pose it'll do," Doyle said with a shrug, dubious.

"I won't hurt you, I promise," Bodie said. "You trust me?"

"As far as I can throw you."

"Now, now, don't be like that."

"All right.  I'll trust you."

Bodie exhaled sharply. "That's it, then."

Doyle stared at him. Then burst into laughter.

"I don't find anything to laugh about," Bodie said, cold and brittle as ice.

"Oh, come on, don't you see the funny side," Doyle said through hiccoughs.   "We might as well be talkin' about a little B&E or something,"

Bodie's lips quivered, he smiled a little and nodded, smile growing broader as Doyle fell against him, laughing too hard to stand alone.

Bodie held him steady until the bout of hysteria passed. He wiped tears from his eyes, only the occasional chuckle escaping him, and so the small room became silent.

Doyle cleared his throat. The sound echoed off the tiles.

No point hanging about. He slid a tentative hand round Bodie's waist and into the small of his back.

Bodie jerked him up close and his arms tightened possessively, crushed the breath from him.

Spent from his coming and from his laughter Doyle was unable to put up much resistance, in the end he resorted to a sharp pinch on Bodie's hip.

There was an infinitesimal relaxing of the steely grip, allowing him barely enough time for a quicksilver gasp of air before Bodie's mouth descended, not gentle at all, but passionate, demanding, biting at his lips, licking the abused spots, then coercing his mouth open.

He had little choice but to yield as Bodie's tongue lashed and thrust deeper into his mouth.  Despite his so-recent climax, he was shocked into responding, electrified into arousal by the raw energy of the body moulded to his.

Bodie released his mouth, but not his grip.  "Bet you never been kissed like that by a woman," he said, a bit breathless himself.

"Once or twice," Doyle said, declining explanation. He switched off the light.

With a last glance over his shoulder, he put his hand in Bodie's waiting one. Bodie drew him on towards the bed, speaking nonsense syllables in his ear, voice dark and liquid as a Mahler symphony, and Doyle let himself be led, in the custody of a strange sort of passion, passive, willing, yet full of excitement.

The  bare  sheets were  cool  to  his  heated  body. "Where's your pet polar bear?" he asked, referring to the tacky fake fur bedspread Bodie was so fond of.

"Cupboard," Bodie said, kissed him again to stop any further conversation and tipped Doyle onto his back.

Bodie's hands felt like winged creatures, flitting across his chest, lighting on his belly, skating up his inner thigh, touching now here, now there, an assault on his senses that emptied him of everything but the wish to surrender himself and feel whatever Bodie could make him feel.

He turned onto his stomach, drew his elbows up to his chest. Shivered as Bodie laid a trail of hot, wet kisses down his spine, focussed at the base. Squeezed his eyes shut as hands covered his buttocks and massaged the tension out of them, while the moist tongue circled, spiralling pleasure up his spine and through his groin. Arched his back, presenting himself, and the hands spread him wide and the tongue drifted down the cleft, and melted inside the secret place of his body.

Wanting to drown in the pleasure of it, he surfaced too soon as the tongue forsook him, replaced by a cold, slick finger, but it warmed quickly enough. He grunted when a second finger worked its way in beside the first, his muscles spasming, but at last his body accepted the intruder.

Bodie lifted him to his hands and knees, and reached under him to enclose his semi-erect cock. "You're sweet," he whispered, lingering over the words, fingers working a counterpoint to his hand.

Suspended between the two, Doyle didn't know whether to thrust forward or backward, so he was motionless.

"Sweet," Bodie repeated, and kissed his back, "sexy," squeezing Doyle's now swollen cock, "beautiful," withdrawing his fingers, "goin' to do it now, OK?" and Doyle murmured his assent.

He opened himself as best he could to the hard satiny cock nudging inside him, but the shock of the invasion forced out every obscene word in his vocabulary.

"Shall I stop?" Bodie said. "I will if you want me to."

"No," Doyle said, panting, "No, it's all right," he bit into his lip, "jus' keep still a minute." Bodie complied instantly. Doyle battled for calm, tried deep even breathing as Bodie moved again, more a stirring than a stroking, a fiery aching deep in his guts, the uncomfortable crowding unbearable.

He whimpered and swore, hating his weakness, but he couldn't stand it. "It hurts, Bodie, let's stop, eh?" Bodie eased out, adjusted his position slightly and pushed back. "This better?"

Doyle gritted his teeth, dug his fingers into the sheets, braced to withstand the wrenching cramping pain. Then he realised it was gone. Magically, the pain was gone, only the exquisite slick sensation of heat and hardness inside him.

"Yeah," he said, wondering. "Much better," and Bodie held his hips and thrust again.

In his misery he'd lost his erection, but Bodie found him out and repaired that condition with a few deft strokes, then settled into the slow syncopation of sex.

Bodie's heart beat fast and strong against his back, palm sliding strong and sweet up his shaft, and he was melting again, melting onto Bodie's cock, delirious with pleasure, and the more Bodie fucked him the more he wanted him to.

"More," he said, pressing back to meet the other man mid-thrust. "Oh, god, more, harder."

Bodie withdrew completely and flipped him over so they were lying belly to belly, bent back his knees and plunged into him again with hardly a break in his rhythm.

Stars exploded in his head and he fell off the earth and he was tumbling forsaken in blackness, until Bodie caught him up, kissing him, telling him over and over how beautiful he was, how good his body felt, lovely words heaped one upon the other until meaning vanished and nothing was left but the sweet drunkenness of sound, the play of primitive cadence on his emotions.

Bodie's thrusting got rougher and harder, but Doyle urged him on with his thighs, wanting all the man's violent nature expended on his body. He dredged up the wit to wonder if this was how women felt and the thought terrified him and excited him, then his senses conquered his reason and something else conquered them both.

Bodie's sombre voice crooning in his ear, "Look at me, lover, let me see your beautiful eyes."

Doyle didn't dare open his eyes.

Bodie pinched his nostrils closed and kissed him.

He couldn't breathe. That was all he could think of, as Bodie's mouth clamped tightly on his, he was suffocating.

He fought, clawing for air. In vain.

Blood dinning in his temples, he capitulated. His eyes flew open. Black specks danced in front of him. Just as he thought his lungs would burst, Bodie released him. "What are you doin', tryin' to kill me?" he squeaked, but Bodie was deaf to his complaint.

His eyes bored into Doyle's, pupils dilated ecstatically, "Oh, yeah, want to look at you while I'm fucking you, want to drown in your eyes."

Lightheaded from lack of air, he lay gasping, helpless to protect himself from Bodie's eyes lancing through him with the frankness of the hunter, seeing to the bottom of his soul and beyond, all the anger and hate and corruption, peered into the vicious, ugly corners, and adored him in spite of it all, or perhaps because of it.

The rapturous blue gaze breached the last line of Doyle's defences, a line he hadn't even known was there until this moment.

To be so entirely exposed; it was a kind of innocence born anew in him and he smiled at Bodie, for joy, because it seemed the most natural thing in the world.

Bodie drew a long sobbing breath. "My god, when you smile like that I can't stand it." He buried his face in his hair, shaking violently. Doyle soothed him as best he could. Who'd 've thought it?

The tremors passed, and Bodie was moving again, eyes glittering like two stars in the dark room.

After a while it seemed to Doyle they were sailing along incorporeal through space, alone together in some indescribable vastness.

He heard a voice moaning incoherently, oh, christ it was his own, he felt his muscles clench tight round Bodie, knew he was going to come, and when Bodie smiled, orgasm burst out of him, splashing Bodie's hand.

Bodie grabbed his shoulders, his face screwed up, eyes wide and tormented. "I'm gonna come, too, Ray—" His mouth fastened on Doyle's and he thrust deep, held absolutely still, and there was a shuddering flood of warm wetness and Bodie collapsed.

Hours later (or was it minutes?) Doyle realised they were breathing in unison.

Bodie raised his head. "The world starts up again," he said, "like a switch." He quirked his eyebrows mischievously. "Click."

Doyle pushed at him. "Off," he ordered, "Let me breathe."

Without another word, Bodie rolled away, and Doyle stretched his cramped legs.

"I've never come like that in all my life," Bodie said a moment later. "Maybe I ought to fall in love with you."

 

Bodie had gone to sleep hours before, but Doyle lay awake through the warm night, his heart heavy and frightened. He remembered when he was eighteen, he had fallen in love once so devastatingly he had neither eaten nor slept for three weeks, and he felt like that now.

For when he tried to recall precisely what Bodie had said, the meaning eluded him like words of a half-forgotten nursery song. Beyond the momentary passion, it added up to exactly nothing.

Quietly he slid out of the bed. His knees wobbled but he made it to the bathroom without mishap, kicked aside the pile of clothing and emptied his bladder. He left the toilet unflushed for fear of waking Bodie.

It was still dark, too dark to see really, but he seemed to see a glimpse of himself in the mirror anyway. He leant close, took in his sex-ravaged face, his mouth bruised and swollen, his skin gleaming with sweat. He tried a grin, but it came out all lopsided. He closed his eyes, opened them again, and for a second he imagined Bodie hovering behind him, heard his deep melodious voice. And for that second found in himself the beautiful creature of Bodie's dream.

Then the haunting uncertainty chimed in to taint the ardor of his memories.  His breath fogged up the glass, a misty veil over his reflection. Nothing had changed.

Nothing. And everything.

He wrapped his arms around his body. You're putting too much into this, he told himself.

Was no more than a dream, would last as long as dreams did.

He had to remember that, in the morning.

But in the morning nothing existed but the strength of Bodie's arms round him, the feel of Bodie's smooth muscle-curved body under his hands, and the dark sweet taste of Bodie's mouth on his.

 

 

 

**June**

 

X.

 

THE SOFT CLICKING of the computer keyboard rapped a taut rhythm through the quiet office. Doyle yawned and stretched, feeling joints pop. At least the chairs in the computer room were new, and considerably more comfortable than the straight-backed wooden torture devices scattered about the building. And the air-conditioning worked in here, owing to the delicate equipment, no doubt.

Be grateful for small favours, he told himself. There was little comfort in an agent's life, most of it was reading boring files, hanging about in sorry dives with your ear to the pavement, cracking your brain to fit unrelated bits of information together into some meaningful pattern.

His back hurt anyway.

He believed that the foundation of any successful investigation lay here, as much as on the street, but by now his head ached from the blue glare of the letters dancing in front of him, and his thoughts dragged from the tedium of the task. He wouldn't mind, had it been his idea. This was Cowley's pet project, though.

Through contacts on the Continent, Cowley's supernaturally sharp ears overheard the whisper of a big narcotics shipment, perhaps the biggest of the decade, gone astray. Somehow it tied up with the woman he and Bodie had been tailing last month. No records on her other than school and employment files. Cowley ordered all her contacts tailed, and reported on as well.

He had buttonholed Doyle in the corridor on his way out of the mornings' lecture. "I want to know how, when and where the transfer was planned, as well as what kind of narcotics are involved."

Don't ask for much, do you, Doyle thought resentfully, since he had been hoping for a little kip in the restroom, but he kept that to himself.

"What is this, a fishing expedition?"

"No, I'm after someone quite particular," Cowley said. "We'll start with the who of the matter, and work from there." He handed Doyle a set of photographs. "Each of these six men has a hand in the import-export trade as well as diplomatic contacts.  All the relevant background information has been keyed into the computer; I'll expect your preliminary opinion before you leave this afternoon."

"I'm supposed to get the ballistics report on the second Midland robbery," Doyle said. Which was true enough, though it wouldn't arrive until 3.00.

"You can go back to that later, 4/5, this has priority."

He restrained the impulse to point out that drug trafficking was not technically CI5's brief; Cowley took such suggestions with bad grace at the best of times.

So here he was, wading his way through surveillance reports.

He got up and went down the hall for a coffee. He wished he was on call, he hated being relegated to second level jobs like this one. Be nice to know exactly what was going on; might help him put the pieces together. Who was he kidding? Even when he was in on the ground level of an op, he seldom got the whole story. Cowley was as tight-fisted with information as Scrooge with his money.

A peek into the typing pool revealed a fresh pot of coffee sitting unguarded. He was in luck, the vending machines stuff was like drinking mud. He tossed the plastic coffee stirrer at a wastebasket on his way back to the computer. It missed by several inches, but he left it where it fell. What difference did it make, anyway, what difference did anything make, after all these years one case looked very much like another. Corruption, drugs, kidnapping, murder, it was all the same.

He took a sip of his coffee, got his mouth burnt for his trouble. He scowled at the paper cup, and set it back down. He tried once more to concentrate on the job in front of him.

McCabe had frustrated literary ambitions, judging by the length and detail of his material. He switched with relief to Bodie's file, terse, densely packed with information, not a word wasted. Bodie hated writing reports. Especially surveillance reports.

He spent a few moments deciphering the cryptic comments, but he was having trouble keeping his mind on the words. He gazed at the flickering screen, no longer seeing the letters or the reflection of his forehead there. His thoughts wandered as they often did in a spare moment to the far more disturbing, difficult puzzle presented by Bodie himself.

Bodie had resumed his nocturnal visits with a nonchalant air as though there had been no interruption. Casual as ever, he appeared to be taking the situation for granted.  But Doyle knew better.

If nothing else, the intense gaze devouring him at every opportunity was proof enough.  Doyle chafed under an abnormal awareness of his own body as the focus for—what?

The fascination with mysteries, the compulsion to tie up loose ends that had earned Doyle the coveted transfer from uniform to CID now drove him to look for answers. He brought to it the same thoroughness and tenacity that made him excel in his profession. To no end. Bodie shied away from all Doyle's attempts to get an angle on the relationship. The harder he tried, the more flippant Bodie became, making Doyle suspicious Bodie was using this to tide him over between birds.

The thought was unbearable.

As often as not, he would go to sleep alone and wake to find Bodie curled around him, and then he would feel warmed by Bodie's apparent need to have as much of his skin touching him as possible, at the physical confirmation that Bodie wanted more than just sex, no matter what he said. Until the next day, when Bodie would ignore him completely. It was driving him stark raving mad.

In one night, Bodie had shredded the finely-wrought veil of detachment Doyle had shrouded himself in for years.

Letting Bodie screw him had been a mistake.  It tangled his thoughts with a bewildering mass of warring emotions. Sexual feelings were aimless until you directed them, Doyle had always believed that.  One ought to be able to respond appropriately in any situation. The idea, however, was different from the reality.

Unknown to himself, he'd been nurturing a solid core of pure masculine pride that now spoke up and denounced the experience as perversion.  The still, small voice showered him with epithets. A real man could never hold up his head after such a night. But neither shame nor pride eclipsed his memory of the ecstasy of surrender, nor crushed his craving for more of the same, for Bodie's surrender in turn. For the first time in years he felt alive, his emotions springing up like weeds in freshly-planted grass.   He was hypersensitive to the point of absurdity, alternating between bouts of unwarranted euphoria, and equally unwarranted depression.

To his relief, Bodie didn't press for an encore. He was seemingly content to poke and prod and explore him with hands and mouth, encouraging Doyle to do the same. He had learned more about the subtle responses of the male body in three weeks than he had in thirty-nine years of owning one.

But Doyle grew angrier every day at Bodie's persistent refusal to so much as acknowledge that anything unusual was happening, while at the same time his captivated eyes followed Doyle wherever he went.

Last night, Doyle had gone as far as to decide that if Bodie didn't want to talk, he could damn well listen, but Bodie had stopped him, pleading, "It's good, Ray, you know it's good. Don't let's ruin it by talking about it."

Irritated, he'd pushed Bodie's hands away.

"Wassamatter?" Bodie said, "Don't you like the way I touch you?"

Doyle sighed in exasperation.

"Show me then," Bodie said, and Doyle's hand was taken and placed on his cock, "Show me how you do it yourself."

"You're nuts," Doyle said. He had no particular hang-ups about masturbation, but he wasn't a kid any more and it was definitely something you did in private.

Bodie pestered and pleaded with him, however, keeping up his impassioned whisperings until Doyle gave in, to shut him up.

"It'll be easy, you'll see," Bodie promised, pulling Doyle into his lap. "Here, I'll help you."

He allowed Bodie to guide his hand to his cock. Feeling more foolish by the second, he squeezed himself until he was hard, then let his palm make the sweet, sensuous glide he loved, up his cock and around to gather the moisture and spread it down.

"Oh, that's beautiful," Bodie said, and pulled Doyle into his lap. He covered Doyle's hand with his own, emulating his movements.

His chin rested abrasively in the curve of Doyle's neck. When Doyle squirmed away from the slight hurt, he slid a restraining arm across Doyle's chest, fingers digging into his armpit, and licked softly at his neck, then soothed the spot in warm, dry kisses.

Doyle liked that: he tipped his head back to expose more of his throat. His fingers tightened reflexively around his cock. "You're bloody incredible," Bodie murmured in his ear. "Let yourself go, now, all the way—"

Accustomed to falling into heavy fantasising at this point, Doyle found it slow going, knowing Bodie's eyes were watching his every move. He considered himself uninhibited, but he felt strangely embarrassed. It was a turn-on, in a weird way, if a bit narcissistic. He opened his eyes. "You, too," he demanded.

"Bit kinky, isn't it?"

Doyle twisted round to glare at him, remembering whose idea this had been in the first place. Kinky? And what did Bodie think of the rest of it? "Forget it, then," Doyle said, and rolled away. "I'm going back to sleep."

It was Bodie's turn to sigh in exasperation. "Only kidding, Ray. I'll do anything you want me to, you know that."

"No," said Doyle, "I don't."

"Come here." Bodie stretched out full length on the bed and held out his arms.

After a minute, Doyle went into them, saying, "You want everything, but you don't want to give anything up."

No answer. No, of course not, might get too personal, Doyle thought, can't have that. He raised his head. "What d'you want to do this for, anyway?"

Bodie brushed the hair from his eyes. "I want to know you."

"Course you do."

"I do."

"Then you're crazier than I thought you were."

He felt Bodie's arms tense around him, then, "Why are you bein' like this, Ray?"

"Like what?"

"You turn it on, blinding me, then you turn it off again, leaving me in the dark.

Mystified, Doyle was silent.

"S'pose you can't help it," Bodie added. 'It's your nature. Angels aren't subject to the same rules as men."

Torn between anger and desire Doyle didn't answer.

Bodie's mouth touched his cheek, traced down his jawline. "Come on, sweetheart, get yourself off for me, it'll be fun, you'll see."

Doyle was sure his heart had missed a beat at the casual endearment, he felt so breathless.

"Please," Bodie said and thrust gently upwards, pressing his erection into Doyle's. "I will if you will."

When Doyle vacillated, Bodie took his head between his hands and fastened his mouth on Doyle's, softly at first, then with a swift intensity, parting his lips and seeking his tongue, then drawing back slightly, "Say yes," he ordered, pulled Doyle on top of him and kissed him again, sending wild tremors down his nerves.

"Say yes," Bodie repeated, eyes deep and gleaming and so dreadfully close they seemed enormous.

And before he quite knew he meant to, Doyle agreed, saying "OK, OK," and bent to be kissed again, but Bodie held him off. Thwarted, Doyle reluctantly slid down and straddled Bodie's thighs. He wrapped his hand around his cock, and waited. As good as his word, Bodie reached for himself, settled to an easy stroking motion. Doyle watched, fascinated in spite of himself. He began to understand the attraction of this; a privileged glimpse into the secret self. He stored away the details for future reference: the smooth, even motions of Bodie's hand round his shaft, the pause to run his palm over the head, but mainly the open defenceless expression on his face.

I could do anything with him right now, Doyle thought, anything at all.

He made a game of matching his rhythm to Bodie's, of trying to anticipate his reactions. But soon he was lost in his own sensations, shifting to the side so Bodie could see what he was doing. A strange, exciting feeling this deliberate flaunting; it was something women did and he'd only ever been on the receiving end before.

"Talk to me," Bodie said. "Tell me—" His voice broke.

Here Doyle was on familiar territory, long practised at using his voice to excite girlfriends. Had to make a few changes—he bent close, so close their knuckles grazed, and whispered, "I loved sucking you off that time, want to do it again," reiterating in graphic detail his sensations of the moment, revelling in the feeling of power as Bodie arched and moaned with every word, "Was great when we fucked, want to do that again, too, you loved it, didn't you," getting more excited himself by the second.

Bodie reacted instantly, a growling noise, and his free hand sank deeply into Doyle's thigh.

On the right track, then, Doyle thought, pleased with himself. "I want you to fuck me, imagine it," he said, "Your cock sliding into me, inch by inch," and he was flooded with images of how it had been, and his voice ran out, but it was enough, Bodie was shuddering into climax already.

Staring now into Bodie's impossibly blue, blue eyes, listening to the whispered litany of his name, feeling himself about to come as well, Doyle was arrested by the singular, compelling thought that Bodie's hard face surrendered to passion was the only paradise he'd ever know.

 

"Doyle."

"Wha—" He looked round, startled, into Cowley's stern colourless gaze.

"Wool-gathering, 4/5? That's the third time I've spoken to you."

Doyle felt his cheeks getting hot, praying he was not actually blushing, what would Cowley make of that for godsakes? He cleared his throat. "Uh, no, sir, mulling over the facts," he said in his best business-like manner.

"And?"

"Well," think fast, Ray, "the only connection I can find among any of these guys is that at least three of them are serious art collectors."

Cowley pulled his glasses from his breast pocket and bent over the terminal.

"Not much else. One has a record, minor incident of assault as a young man, charges dropped." Unnerved by Cowley's frowning silence, he went on, facetiously, "Oh, and they are all very rich."

"Good of you to point that out, Doyle. I might have overlooked it." Cowley straightened. "Not much to show for an afternoon's work, is it?" He pinned Doyle with a clinical eye. "How are you getting on with Bodie these days?"

"Bodie?"

"Yes, Bodie, your partner, are you going deaf as well absent-minded?"

"Don't see him that much these days—" He lowered his eyes to the keyboard, flustered. Damn. Doyle was a glib and accomplished liar on the job, but it was harder to lie to Cowley than to God on the proverbial Day of Judgement. Cowley was more substantial than God.

Maybe he was jittery, but Cowley seemed to be taking a peculiar interest in his welfare lately. Between Cowley and Bodie watching him all the time, he was about to go off his skull. He pulled the threads of his composure together and met Cowley's piercing gaze. "I expect we get on as well as ever," he said as coolly as he could manage.

Cowley gave a faint smile. "These two are clean," he said, gesturing at the computer, "Concentrate on Jordan and Roberts. See if you can uncover any other link between them apart from a fondness for the Grand Masters. In the meantime we'll step up surveillance."

It was all Doyle could do not to groan aloud. "Yes, sir."

"Very well. Carry on." Cowley nodded, and left.

Doyle heaved a huge sigh of relief.

His fingers shook as he called up the file to log his notes. What was the matter with him, he was as nervous as a raw recruit.

But that was bloody typical lately. Must be getting soft in the head in his old age.

And if Bodie didn't leave off going on with the angel bit and staring at him all the time, Doyle was going to thump him. He sighed. Maybe he would get used to it after a while.

It wouldn't last anyway. It couldn't. Bodie would get tired of him soon, Doyle was certain. He knew his partner far too well to trust him in this; you had only to observe his callous discarding of his women to see that he was faithless as the wind.

Doyle sighed again. There were two choices open to him, really: either call an end to it now, before he got in too deep, or—

Take what he could get.

He took another sip of his coffee, nearly spat it out. It had gone stone-cold.

 

XI.

 

AFTER THREE DAYS of reading reports and cross-referencing files Doyle revised his estimate of 'forever' upwards when he checked the list and found he wasn't even halfway done. He was sure he'd developed a permanent squint as well.

Of course, he might finish sooner but for time spent making further inquiries on the Midland case. Discreetly. Didn't want Cowley going on at him, did he? He checked his watch: after six. Better turn in the day's notes before he headed out. Cowley'd be at it for hours; his single joy in life was work, work, and after that, work.

Not Doyle. He could think of lots of better ways to spend his evenings than cosying down with a pile of paper. Oh, if he was hot on something he could go for twelve or fifteen hours, weeks at a stretch, but four hours of this routine crap was all he could stand.

He pulled an envelope from the bottom of the stack and opened it again. Copies of photos from the last robbery; not evidence as such, but nasty enough they might shake Cowley's determination that CI5 hang back on this one. Ammunition, so to speak.

On his way home his r/t, silent for so many days, crackled into life, bleeping like a maniacal herald. He grabbed the mike. "4/5."

"3/7. Cowley's on to a pair of outlaws; said for us to bring 'em in. Armed and dangerous."

"Great.  Who are they?"

"Dunno. Your bandits?"

"They're not my bandits," Doyle snapped, "Where is it?" He memorised the address and clipped the mike back in place. He knew the area, a shabby, but fairly respectable part of town; blocks of flats mainly.

He was the first to arrive, followed shortly by Jax and McCabe. Bodie must be stuck in traffic. Doyle amused himself with plans of rubbing it in. Bodie fancied himself as such a hotshot driver, serve him right being the last one to show up.

Checking his gun, and his pocket for a spare clip, he strolled up to the other car and leant into the window. "They're campin' out on the first floor of that building," he said, pointing down the street.

Jax was halfway out of the car, craning his neck to see.

McCabe looked up at Doyle from the driving seat. "Want to toss for who goes inside?" he asked.

"Nah. You two young lads stay out here where it's safe. Jax can keep the window covered—"

"And me the door, right. You been in that classroom too long, 4/5."

"Watch it," Doyle said.

"Sore point," advised a familiar voice behind him.

Doyle turned, gazed up into lazily smiling eyes.

"'S not polite to keep a man dangling," Bodie said.

"When did you get here?"

"Where'd you think I called from? Been waiting so long I thought eternity was drawing nigh."

Doyle swallowed.

"And now I see I was right," Bodie added in an undertone. His eyes crinkled at the corners.

In a daze, Doyle stood motionless, unable to look away. He had the impression that the sounds of cars whizzing by had become louder. Time slowed down as his pulse sped up. He could feel it drumming at his throat. He heard a car door slam.

"All right, break it up, you two," Jax said. "Let's get on with what we came for. I don't know about you, but I want to go home. My wife will kill me if I miss supper again."

Bodie stiffened and took a step back.

Doyle tore his eyes away, looked at Jax. "Yeah, right," he said, forcibly pulling himself together. He'd better pay attention or he was going to blow it and get them all killed. He flicked off the safety on his pistol. "Come on, sunshine," he said over his shoulder to Bodie.

To the passers-by, they appeared to be wandering rather aimlessly, out for an evening stroll. They reached the block of flats, and Doyle felt a hand on his elbow, holding him back while Bodie scanned the street and unbuttoned his jacket before signalling all clear. They ducked inside.

The place looked terribly run-down, though clean. The floor was checkered vinyl, freshly mopped and glistening still. A ladder leant on the near wall, next to a door marked 'Reception'. He glanced at the noticeboard on the wall, scanning the notes pinned to it, then tried the door, locked. A bucket sat to one side, and the smell of wet plaster and the tang of ammonia permeated the air.

. Doyle glanced at Bodie, to see if he had the same idea, and they split up to hunt down the missing workman. Nowhere to be found. Must've gone home for the day and left his things for tomorrow.

Bodie poked his head round the corner, and indicated the lift standing open. Doyle approached it with caution, noted an out-of-order sign. The shaft was empty. Spotting a door ajar, he jerked his thumb that direction. They arrayed themselves on either side of the door frame.

On unspoken cue, they burst through the door together, guns at ready. Stairwell, also empty. With another nod, Doyle crept up the stairs, staying to the outside to cut down on creaking, Bodie a few steps behind him. He paused on the landing to send a quick beep of his r/t to the other two agents.

Despite his disparaging remarks, he was glad it was Jax and McCabe outside, experienced men who knew how to work as part of a unit. There would be no babying, no extraneous chatter on the radio, everyone's reaction time as fast as his own. That was the way Doyle liked it.

Seemingly at random, he chose one door out of the row. He did this for no specific reason, but instinct told him that was where they'd find their quarry. The carpeted corridor hid their footfalls.

Following his lead, Bodie positioned himself opposite as he had downstairs. He raised his gun hand to cheek level and froze.

Their breathing was the only sound as they waited for the others to get in place.

Gog and Magog guarding the temple, Doyle thought, no wait, they were lions or dogs or something, he couldn't remember. A drop of sweat trickled down the back of his neck.

His mind went chattering on, throwing out little pieces of memory and he was taken back to a time he'd stood alone outside a door like this one, waiting for a signal from Cowley and deciding right there and then that he didn't give a damn about regulations, that he was going all the way inside rather than take a chance on making a mistake and shooting Bodie.

Funny, he'd forgot that until now. Fear was a live thing in his gut, gnawing its way out.

He took a deep breath as much to steady his thunderous heartbeat as to drive down the impulse to run. He transferred his gun to his left hand, wiped his hand on his jeans, switched back, wiped the other hand. It was only a bloody pick-up, for chrissakes, he couldn't remember being this nervous—no, scared since—since when? Since that business with Parsali—oh, ages ago, an' that had been reasonable after all, he'd stood an even chance of packing it in for good that day...

What the hell were the others doing, having a picnic?

He glanced across at Bodie, at the set jaw, narrowed eyes, the body tense with readiness. He was all right, Bodie was, always. As he stared at the cool, self-sufficient figure, anger blasted through him, anger at the manifest unfairness of it all. Nothing ever got to Bodie deep-down, not so's you'd know it anyway. Doyle could count the number of times he'd seen Bodie lose his temper on the fingers of one hand. Blow someone away? No problem; risk his life for some bloody dictator who butchered his own people without a second thought, piece of cake; collar a couple of thugs who'd as soon kill you as look at you, anytime; it all slid off his back like water off the proverbial duck. Everything came easily to him. The job, the girls, and even he, himself, had fallen into Bodie's arms with hardly a protest.

'Knew I could talk you into anything...'

Another bit of memory snagged him, his own voice 'you scared?'...and Bodie's 'All the time' as casually as if he were talking about the weather. In fact it seemed the more terrified he was the more casually he behaved, as it to acknowledge the terror by gesture or tone would multiply it past endurance.

Yeah, Bodie had feelings, all right, roiling away under that calm surface, but what good were they to anyone, least of all him, bottled up like that? Wasn't healthy, couldn't be—oh, listen to that, he had a lot of room to talk, didn't he? It came to him then that it had been years, six or seven, since he had given a shit about any of things he did every day.

It was easy as long as you forgot what might happen, as long as you didn't know the feeling of bullets hitting, the sudden horrible burning, tearing, shattering, hurling you back, and the waking up to the smell of disinfectant, if you woke up at all...or the sight of someone's chest fragmenting in front of you, blood all over you... How many hospital ceilings had he stared up at?

Hospitals, morgues, graveyards, been in too many of them.

A bleep from his r/t cut off the tangle of thoughts. Bodie looked his way, hint of a smile warming his eyes, and Doyle nodded at him. Maybe it would be all right for them, then.  Maybe—a lot of things.

They stepped back in unison, a macabre imitation of the dance. Doyle kicked the door open. In a single motion he was inside crouched down, covering the room's shocked occupants with his gun. They raised their arms, and Doyle lowered his gun. Bodie handcuffed the first.

Anticlimax. He stepped across debris to the window; it had been boarded up. Too late, he caught the motion of the second man reaching for a weapon, he spun on him. "Don't," he said, but the man ignored him.

Doyle knew he should fire, but all he could see was the man's face on a slab. Then Bodie tackled him.

Doyle shook himself, and bounded over to help Bodie get the handcuffs on. Bodie glared at him. "What's the matter with you?" he hissed. "Trying to get yourself killed, and me with you?" Doyle didn't answer, just yanked the man to his feet.

Bodie opened a cupboard door and a parcel rolled out; machine pistols. "Jackpot," he said.

After turning over the room and finding nothing more of interest, together they bundled the men down to the car where he reholstered his gun. "All right, we've got them," he shouted to the waiting McCabe. Jax came trotting up a few seconds later.

"Can you handle it from here or do we need to babysit you back home?" Jax asked.

"Go on to your supper, Caspar," Doyle said, "Don't fancy being responsible for you sleeping on the sofabed."

Jax waved and slid into the car next to McCabe, who was trying not to laugh as he started up the car.

"If I had your wife, Jax, it wouldn't be supper I was hurryin' home to," Bodie called after them. Their horn tooted once, and the car merged with the traffic.

Doyle eyed the two men huddled in the back seat of his own car. "You want to take 'em or shall I?"

Bodie gave one of his little 'it's all the same to me' shrugs. "You can. I'll get their stuff bagged and checked."

"Help me handcuff 'em together, then," Doyle said.

"Where you takin' us?" the older of two men said as Bodie relocked the cuffs on his wrist. It was the first thing either had said all this time, both obviously too scared and surprised to even think of escape yet.

"To our fearless leader," Bodie intoned.

"Yeah, he wants to meet you," Doyle added, "It's a great honour, you know, hope you appreciate it." Satisfied they were secure enough to cause him no trouble on the return trip, he climbed into the car. "See you back at the ranch, partner," he said with the drawling American accent he knew Bodie hated, speeding away without waiting for an answer, leaving Bodie standing on the kerb.

Doyle kept up a running monologue all the way back to CI5, full of vague warnings and ominous hints. He didn't think they would need much softening up, but you never knew, and anyway as long as he was talking to them he wasn't thinking about Bodie.

He hustled and chivvied them down the corridors, rather enjoying himself. They went willingly enough; two average guys they looked, the one fortyish, dark blond hair and a moustache, the other a bit younger, a bit taller, brown hair and blue eyes; together they had the appearance of another couple of working-men. "Aren't you going to photograph us or nothing?" the older one asked.

"Oh, no, we keep things all nice and private here," Doyle said. "See, your own separate accommodations. 'M afraid there's no bathroom though."

He shut the door after the younger man with a flourish, and spotting Bodie heading his way, indicated with a nod of his head for Bodie to take that one. He himself followed the other man in to the next cell, locking the door behind them.

"Have a seat," Doyle offered.

The man hesitated before sitting on one of the small wooden chairs.

Doyle circled round the chair several times, waiting, watching; finally he perched on the edge of the desk and stared at his charge.

Not the common-or-garden robber but not a mastermind either.

A bell started ringing in the back of his mind. One of the first things he had learned in the Met. was that familiarity with known criminals paid off faster than any sort of fancy detective work; and the years in CI5 reinforced both the lesson and his memory for faces. Well, the man had changed in ten years. Hadn't they all.

Doyle opened the drawer of the desk and rummaged inside. "Cigarette? No? Good, good for you, keep healthy. Water? Good, you're comfortable then. All right, what's your name."

"John Smith."

"And I'm Pocahontas. Come on," Doyle said, "We'll find out sooner or later."

"That's my name."

"And what do your friends call you? Jack, Johnny, what?"

"John."

"Plain John." Doyle paused to consider his quarry. "That's right. I remember you now. Plain John, that's what they called you when you used to knock over kiosks. Nothing fancy, a stocking over the face, bash 'em on the head and on your way. Moving up in the world, are we? Who you working for, mate?"

The man shrugged.

"The flat, yours?"

"Moved in today."

"Convenient. Don't suppose you'd like to tell me where you got the shooters?"

"I didn't know they were there."

"He didn't know. My god."

"From a bloke I met."

"Where?"

"Around."

Doyle rubbed a hand over his face. It was always the same. He jumped up and grabbed the man's shoulders, leant over till their noses were just a few centimetres apart.

Smith raised his arm as if to push Doyle away, and Doyle shook him, hard. "I wouldn't. I might break it." He went on, ever so quietly. "You know, guns exactly like those were used last month to kill three people. In a bank robbery. It was very messy, let me tell you, I saw the pictures today. I wonder how long it would take to equal that amount of blood."

Smith jerked back, and the scent of fear-scented sweat that hit Doyle's nostrils maddened him like some bizarre perfume. He shook him again, then straightened, more to create the effect of looming menace than anything else.

He expected some protest, a denial of guilt, but the man stayed silent.

Confession enough. A sort of manic glee overtook him. "Was it worth it?" he snapped. "You clowns got seventy thousand pounds last haul, not a lot of money for murder, is it?"

The man looked sullen.

"Yeah, you sit there nice and quiet," Doyle said through his teeth, "as long as you can. Until I really get started." He smiled in savage satisfaction as the man glanced helplessly at the door. "Oh, you needn't worry," he said with false reassurance, and smiled, "No one will hear you scream."

"What—what are you going to do to me?"

"What about you did to those three people? Doesn't that worry you any? No, why should it, guys like you, it's your own skin you worry about—" He broke off, revulsion and rage threatening to overwhelm him and walked away, to the other end of the room. He had to get some breathing space before his temper got the better of him. The walls had been newly white-washed, but fresh graffiti already decorated the rear wall; the usual commonplace obscenities.

Perhaps he should go and see how Bodie was getting on.

After taking a few deep breaths, he forced himself to think, to consider tactics. Smith, or whatever his name was, was scared, Doyle had seen his sort of silence before, not calculated, but terrified, terrified if he said anything at all, he would say everything.

Doyle turned and approached him again, slowly. The man hunched down in the chair, practically cowering. "Look, nothing's going to happen to you if you tell me who you're working for," Doyle said, as friendly as he could manage.

He finally got a disjointed story of being paid weekly to run errands by a gent. No, he'd never seen the man. No, he didn't know what the weapons were for. No, no, and nothing.

"You don't believe me."

"Who says?" Doyle said. "Maybe I do. Maybe I don't. I haven't made up my mind." It was enough to be going on with. Let him stew for awhile. "Don't go away now," he said and let himself out of the room.

The door to the next cell stood ajar; the sound of Bodie talking drifted through. Doyle leant against the wall to wait for him.

It was cool in the corridor, and quiet except for the soft drone of voices. He felt numb, all the bright hot righteousness passed from him.

Bodie emerged momentarily. "Get anything?"

Doyle told him. Bodie nodded. "About what I got."

"Yeah, well, it's pretty clear they're not the evil genius-type. You did turn those guns over to the forensic boys?" Doyle added. "There'll be a rocket if we forget. Remember what happened the last time."

"I'm not the one who forgot," Bodie said disdainfully. He pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and waved it at Doyle. "See? Happy now?"

Doyle shrugged. "Best go and see if the old man wants us for anything else," he said.

On their way Doyle spied the members of his class coming out of the briefing room. Lucky for him. Cowley must have kept them over. Arbitrarily choosing, he waved over two of the men and dispatched them to complete routine questioning. Time they got a taste of the real thing.

Upstairs the corridors were buzzing with life and energy. The heavy wooden door squeaked open and Cowley stuck his head out. "Doyle." Although he had not been called, Bodie silently accompanied him in and closed the door.

Cowley's gaze, coldly appraising, passed from Bodie to Doyle, but he didn't say anything, ensconcing himself behind the stronghold of his desk and pulling a file from the stack to his left.

Doyle recognised it as the one he turned in yesterday. He refrained from asking; he knew Cowley would explain when he was damn good and ready and premature questions would irritate him.

"Those two you picked up—everything fine, I presume," Cowley said without preamble. "You'd best get everything you can out of them this evening, Doyle, because in the morning we'll have to let them go."

"Let them go?" Bodie said, "But we just—"

"I am well aware of that, Bodie," Cowley cut in, "We'll put a trace on them. If that meets with your approval?" He fixed Bodie with a baleful glare as if to warn him that his presence would be tolerated only as long as he kept his place.

After a moment, Bodie looked at the floor.

"Why?" Doyle asked. "The armoury we found is enough to hold them on."

"It's not my decision," Cowley barked. He picked his glasses up from the desktop and peered at a paper. "4/5. Parts of this report are illegible; kindly take more care in future."

Doyle drew his shoulders into a slouch, trying to make himself small. Cowley was in a mood today an' no mistake. "Yes, sir. Will that be all, sir?"

"No, it will not."

Several more minutes went by with the soft rustling of papers and the scratch of Cowley's pen before he spoke again.

"You're predicting a possible third robbery in the next month?" Not waiting for an answer, he gestured at the stack of photographs on the corner of the desk, saying "Top one. That man, Harris. He's on the director's board of the same bank."

He removed his glasses and permitted himself a small smile. "I'm surprised you didn't make the connection."

"I told you it was an inside job," said Doyle. He snatched up the folder and opened it to the last page, tossed it down again in front of Cowley. "Look, in both cases they knew exactly where to find the vault combination."

"Yes." Cowley cleared his throat. "Well done, Doyle, but that wasn't what I had in mind." He flipped through the file, then closed it. "He's also one of the men we've been keeping under surveillance."

"OK," Doyle said testily, "what do we have? A drug shipment gone missing, two bank robberies and this fellow connected to both of them?"

Over his head Bodie met Doyle's gaze and winked. "Maybe he's robbing his own banks."

"Aye, it's possible." Cowley leant back in his chair. "We've known for years that a small group has been operating as a central clearing-house for all kinds of illegal substances; heroin and cocaine in the main, but they'll provide anything you ask for and so far, no one has a glimmer of how they're doing it. Interpol estimates the overseas trade alone is worth five million pounds a year."

The quiver of black humour touched Bodie's eyes again. "Sounds like they've got quite a little business there. I wonder if they give 2-for-l coupons," he said in stage whisper.

Cowley ignored the remark, as well as Doyle's inadvertent snicker. "I want it stopped. The street-trade is their bread and butter, but the real business is bribery and corruption of any government official or diplomat they can get to—"

"And squeezing their drug traffic will cut off the funds, yeah, yeah, I get it," Doyle put in, "but what's that got to do with these robberies?"

"It's part of a pattern."

"Why not pick up this Harris? If he's the big fish, he'll know the entire operation."

"He's not the big fish."

"So who's backing him then?"

"There have been indications that one man is behind several crime syndicates. And now this one." He tapped the stack of files and papers to his right. "Case after case, all seemingly unrelated, robberies, swindles, drugs, blackmail, all full of dead ends, red herrings. And all still open—lack of evidence. They don't follow a pattern, but there are similarities—more a style, a signature."

"So you're saying one man is behind all this? It doesn't make sense. The profits from any crime would be diluted."

"I don't think profit is the issue. The point is to gather a network of criminal resources, readily available and reasonably loyal.

"Oh, come on," Doyle said. "You make him sound like a modern Moriarty."

"Facetious, but apt."

Cowley must be paranoid. No, he would do anything to justify CI5's poking around in matters that were technically none of its business.

He glanced at Bodie, who had said nothing all this time, repressing a smile. "Shadowy master criminals, eh?"

"Shadows can hide worlds," Bodie said.

Thank you, Dostoevsky, Doyle thought. Bodie picked the oddest times to go melodramatic. "All right, who is this guy?"

"I have my suspicions, nothing positive." Cowley snapped the file shut.

"Sounds like Sinclair," Bodie said.

"And you're not going to tell us," Doyle said.

"Quite right. Any case, our concern is to find that shipment before anyone else does. It's not on the street. It hasn't left the country by any of the usual means. In fact, Iem not so certain it's missing at all."

"A falling out among thieves, eh?" Bodie remarked.

"Aye, that. Or else—" Cowley paused, frowning. "We're missing the point." He snatched up Doyle's report and thumbed through it again excitedly. "The timing of these robberies is entirely too convenient for my taste. Yes, Harris, the increase last spring in the street-trade—" he grabbed another folder, "and last summer an embezzlement investigation at yet another branch of the bank. Ingenious." He put on his glasses and began reading in earnest. For half a moment, the square black frames coupled with the black suit he wore made him look as harmless as a staid City accountant.

Doyle waited until he couldn't stand it any more. "What are you trying to say? Are you saying these bank jobs are a cover or something?"

Out of the comer of his eye, he saw Bodie make a face at Cowley. "What did I say? He's robbin' his own banks."

Cowley put the folder down. "Doyle. You know where the next raid will take place."

"I can make an educated guess," Doyle said, annoyed at not getting a direct answer.

"Don't mince words with me," Cowley snapped.

"Yeah, yeah. All right. I've got two possibilities. They might go for the big haul in London; or else stay with the smaller banks, less of risk. Westcombe is next in line."

"Good. We'll could mark the notes in the vault, of course, but I don't think it's the money they're after." Cowley smiled again, quite benevolently. "I expect we will find all or part of one of these shipments hidden in the vault  Or will be, a day or so before the 'robbery'."

Doyle had been about to ask why they didn't search the place, when Cowley's last words sunk in. "You want them to go through with it."

"Attempt to."

"But sir—" The realisation hit him like a blow. "Everyone was murdered in the last raid."

"We'll put a man on both places," Cowley said as if he hadn't heard, "and we can replace the staff with our operatives."

"How are you going to do that if it's an inside job," Doyle scoffed and looked to Bodie for confirmation. Bodie, however, had knelt to tie his shoe, and wasn't noticing.

"You may leave that to me," Cowley said tartly.

Bodie rose, dusting his knees, and straightened his jacket. "Cannon-fodder, eh?"

"That's cold, Bodie," Doyle said, very low.

Bodie looked away, rolling his eyes to the ceiling.

Doyle glanced wildly from Cowley to Bodie and back in disbelief. "Listen, I started that project in order to prevent another robbery, not to make it easier. That is supposed to be our job, prevention of major crimes, isn't it?"

"I don't need you to tell me what our job is, Doyle," Cowley said, voice dripping acid. "Your job is to follow orders."

"Yes, sir, Mr. Cowley, sir," Doyle said, perilously close to shouting now, "Our job is whatever you say it is—CI5 the almighty arm of George Cowley, reaching out to bring justice and lavender water to the British Isles."

He knew he was going too far, he didn't care, heedless of both Cowley's wintry stare and Bodie's not-so-subtle signalling to stop now, before it was too late. "You're turning us into a secret police, you know that? We've got our fingers in every pie in the country and a few out of it. What has this business got to do with us, no really, we do have a Drugs Squad, y'know. And in the meantime have you thought about the customers that'll be in there tryin' to get a little cash when these guys bust in? It was just luck it hasn't happened before, the other places were nothing banks in the country."

"Be that as it may," Cowley said mildly. "However, we can leave that discussion to another time. If you are quite finished with your little diatribe? "

The old man was suddenly remarkably patient, Doyle thought, but that angered him further. Like he was a child being humoured.

"Well, I'm not having any part of it," he said, and started for the door.

"Doyle."

"Sir," he said, not turning round.

"The robbery may happen, with bank clerks at risk rather than trained CI5 men.  Is that what you want?"

Doyle froze.

"I could order you to cooperate, but I don't think that will be necessary, will it?"

Doyle turned to face him. "No, sir," he said with slow loathing.

"Tomorrow morning at eight, then, here. We'll go over these reports. I hope you can read your own handwriting. I'll have not a whisper of CI5 involvement. As far as the Home Office is concerned, this is still a local matter. Dismissed, Doyle. Not you, Bodie. I have a few things to cover with you."

Doyle slammed the door behind him. "Might as well line 'em up against a wall and shoot 'em. Be more merciful that way," he muttered under his breath.

He couldn't believe Cowley would send an agent to the slaughterhouse and not even bat an eyelash.

No, he did believe it, that was the problem. Cowley'd done it before; a few times it was him and Bodie on the chopping block. And he was going to help him do it. All those hours of research, all for this.

He set off down the corridor, not knowing where he was headed. He rested his head against the dingy wall. What the hell was the matter with him lately? He'd been in on worse ops than this one, hadn't bothered him then. Well, not much.

He sensed rather than heard Bodie's approach.   "So, sunshine, that wall gonna fall down any minute now, is it?"

"Go fuck yourself," Doyle said quietly and turned on his heel and walked away.

Bodie caught him up.  "Oh, come on, have sense, Ray. You heard the old man.     I'm  sure he'll take every precaution—"

"Like he does with us? Oh, he'll take every precaution all right, to protect CI5."

"And the public."

"Noble sentiments, coming from you."

"Oh, I suppose you're the only one who can have any of those.

Doyle did not so much as acknowledge that remark. They rounded the corner in temporary silence, then:

"Look, Doyle, we're paid to risk our lives. All of us."

"Yeah, yeah, but it's lousy what he's doing, Bodie, and you know it."

"You've got to take a chance.  Sometimes you're wrong _,_ sometimes you're right, but the point is to take the chance, or else you're dead," Bodie said.

There was a long pause punctuated by the rhythmic squeaking of their shoes on the linoleum. Then Bodie sighed. "OK, you're right. I know you're right." He grabbed Doyle's arm. "What do you want me to do about it?"

Doyle swung around and jabbed him in the chest with his forefinger. "Just once," he said, soft and very bitter, emphasising each word with a jab, "just once I wish you'd tell that to Cowley, 'stead of always lettin' me take the heat."

"It wouldn't change anything.  It never does."

"Don't you think I know that?" Doyle didn't want to feel this, didn't want to feel anything at all, while the cause of his revived turmoil stood there blandly smiling down at him.

"Hey, you're shaking. Not goin' all squeamish on me, are you?" Bodie said. He bent close and for a split second Doyle thought he was going to kiss him right there in the corridor,

"Go away," Doyle said. "Leave me to work out my own salvation."

Bodie's eyes widened, then his lashes fluttered down, effectively concealing his expression. "For me," he said, "salvation is getting through the day."

"Yeah," Doyle said, because there was nothing else to say. Bodie stood so close he could feel his breath on his face, could smell the by now familiar mix of sweat and cologne, but he might as well be a stranger. They inhabited two different worlds, always had done and he was a fool to keep hoping otherwise.

"Ray—"

"Leave me alone, will you?"

"3/7!"

Bodie jumped back as though he'd received an electric shock.

They both turned to see Wilson tearing their direction. "You better get back to Cowley, mate, he's foaming at the mouth. What's going on?"

Bodie grinned. "Oh, I told him to wait." He scratched the back of his head.  "Breathing fire, is he?"

Wilson looked him over with something like awe. "You're either insane or bucking for a hero's medal. Anyway, he sent me to fetch you."

"On my way." With a mock-salute to Doyle, Bodie took off down the corridor.

As he watched the tall figure stride purposefully away, Doyle remembered something he'd read once. No wonder Bodie was so cheerful most of the time. Exorcism of doubt must truly be bliss.

 

 

XII.

 

SUCH BLESSINGS were denied him. But he kept his feelings to himself. Why bother to voice his concerns? No one was listening.

Least of all Bodie.

Doyle stared morosely at the water sheeting down his sitting-room window. Wouldn't you know it, a day's leave and it rained. Had rained all morning, in fact. He'd got up early that day, bathed, dressed, and eaten, planning to go to the storage area and work on his motorcycle. What a bloody waste of time.

He sat cross-legged on the sofa, huddled in a blanket. It wasn't cold, quite the opposite in fact, humid and stuffy, but contemplating the grey drizzle for several hours made him feel cold. Nearly one, according to the wall clock. He ought to do something constructive, not let the day become a total waste.

The door buzzer went. He didn't answer it. The movements required seemed too much effort. It sounded again, insistently. He finally twisted around and picked up the receiver.

"Guess who?"

"Drop dead, Bodie," Doyle said, but he pressed the buzzer anyway. Why the hell didn't Bodie use the key?

Bodie opened the door and squished across the carpet to the sofa. "What's the matter with you for chrissake? It's pouring out there."

Anyone would think his feelings were hurt. Doyle didn't believe it for a second.

"I'm soaked," Bodie complained.

"Serves you right for going out without a mac," Doyle said severely. But he looked so pitiful with his hair plastered to his head and rivulets of water streaming down his cheeks that Doyle relented. "I'll fetch you some dry clothes."

"And a towel, don't forget a towel," Bodie called after him.

He went to the near cupboard and opened it, found his winter coat hanging there by itself. He swore softly to himself. With arrogant disregard for Doyle's preferences, Bodie had rearranged the kitchen to suit his military sense of order, obviously he'd been at the bedroom when Doyle wasn't looking. Why couldn't he leave well enough alone? He tried another cupboard. His suits. Bathroom, then. He found them neatly stacked on the glass shelves above the washbasin. Too bad Bodie's behaviour wasn't as predictable.

Back in the bedroom, he yanked open the drawer Bodie had allocated to himself so he could keep a change of clothes there. He'd offered Doyle a corner of the wardrobe at his flat, but Doyle refused. He resented the automatic assumption it implied. Like it was all settled between them or something, when in reality nothing was settled.

He returned to Bodie and silently handed him the requested items. Bodie dried his hair with quick efficient motions, shook the water from his leather jacket, then began to unbutton his shirt. He glanced up, saw Doyle looking at him, and turned his back. An absurd display of modesty, in Doyle's opinion, so he crossed his arms and stared shamelessly. He rather liked the way the humidity made Bodie's hair curl wantonly at the nape of his neck; perhaps because he knew it was a constant source of annoyance to Bodie.

He watched in helpless fascination as Bodie peeled the wet shirt off his ribs, caught by the sleek sliding play of muscle as Bodie stretched his arms over his head. Doyle felt an insidious lick of desire curl through his groin at the sight. Habit by now, he supposed. His mind latched on to the word.

Habit. Habit, habitual, habituated.

That's what he was; for Bodie was good to him, as long as the lights were out. He did not understand how a man so callous towards the feelings of others could be so tender in bed.

Which is the real you? he thought. Ridiculous question. He reached out and cupped his palm around one bare shoulder.

Head hidden inside the dry shirt, Bodie went rigid.

Doyle felt it, and feeling it, knew the cause. Oh, of course, he forgot. Mustn't touch, not without permission. When Bodie started to unbuckle his belt, Doyle escaped to the toilet, locking the door and leaning on it.

Outside, the rain clattered noisily on the drainpipes as though clamouring to be let in.

He calmed down and came out. Bodie was staring out the window, having helped himself to a cup of tea and a sandwich.

Doyle sat on the sofa and rewrapped himself in the blanket. "What, leaving so soon? And what did you want, Bodie? Apart from eating me out of house and home, that is."

"Nothing. I was bored."

"Oh, bored." Doyle got up, trailing the blanket, and went to the kitchen for some tea himself, swearing when he had to make another pot. He stomped back into the sitting room, empty-handed.

Bodie shot him a look of mock-concern. "You look terrible, son."

"Feel it," Doyle mumbled.

"You comin' down with something?"

"No."

"Ah, brooding."

"Pack it in." Doyle shed the blanket and flung it away with an irritated snap of the wrist. He plopped himself down on the sofa and scowled at the carpet. For the first time since he moved in, he noticed the previous tenant left it dotted with cigarette burns. He ought to make the landlord install a new one, on principle, although he didn't expect to be here long enough to enjoy it.

He surveyed Bodie with sour eyes. "Would you take off that jacket, it makes me hot looking at you."

Bodie turned his head and raised an expressive eyebrow. "That's what all they all say, my son," he said with a touch of sorrow, "it's a curse to be born beautiful, that's what." He sighed theatrically, but before he turned back to contemplating the window, he took off his jacket again and laid it across the arm of the sofa. The faded fabric of his gun holster cut a white strip across the dark blue ribknit.

"So true," Doyle agreed, advancing on him. He got right up behind him and slid his hands up Bodie's back to the sides of his neck.

Bodie shivered.

"It's a curse all right," Doyle continued, "oh, everybody wants a piece of you for their very own, but you, Bodie, what do you want?" He felt along the tendons in Bodie's neck, sought and found what he was looking for, and pressed his thumbs lightly against the twin pressure points. "I've always wanted to know, so why don't you tell me?" His tone was as light as his fingers, but he knew Bodie was aware of the threat—his breathing had accelerated and his back muscles had gone rigid.

"Just what are you on about?"

"Yes, what do you want?" Doyle whispered, fingertips caressing the soft hollow of Bodie's throat. "What could you possibly need?"

He pushed close to Bodie, ignoring the scratch of the holster and it was all too much, his desperation to touch the other man's being in some way. "Oh, christ." The shakes hit him hard and he sagged against Bodie. He was no better than the rest. He laid his head against Bodie's back.

Bodie turned and pulled him close, too briefly, then held him at arms-length and studied Doyle's face dispassionately. He nodded to himself as though confirming some long-held opinion. "Don't take on, Ray, you've nothing to worry about."

Doyle shook his head and returned to his corner of the sofa. Even comfort was forbidden. He listened to the rain fall and thought about nothing.

Bodie's voice startled him. "Still thinking about that guy, mate?"

"What guy?"

"You know, the one that got rammed by the car we were chasing the other day?"

"What is this, Bodie, you get a kick out of me feeling guilty or what? Saves you the trouble."

"You are still thinking about him." A statement of fact. The hassock in front of him whooshed, but Doyle didn't look up.

"No, I'm not thinking about him, I wasn't, not until you mentioned it, I wasn't."

"Don't give me that," Bodie persisted despite his warning glare, "I know you. I can read your mind like Cowley reads the Bible."

Doyle fixed him with a hard, unblinking stare. "Do you? Do you know me? I wonder. I wonder about a lot of things."

Like how deeply and properly shocked Cowley had been when they reported the accident and had gone round himself to express condolences. He often wondered how his boss reconciled the orders he gave with his sincerely-voiced respect for life and ordinary human values. Well, he, Doyle couldn't manage it. Once upon a time he would have reflected on the capriciousness of life—that poor devil was probably on his way home from a nice, boring office job, never dreaming his lifespan was at an end, and all for nothing, while his killer got clean away. He smiled faintly. Now he couldn't bring himself to care, except to feel vaguely sorry for the man's family. His conscience informed him that it was another sign of how far his chosen line of work had corrupted him, but he didn't care about that either. His gaze focussed on the man in front of him.

Bodie tugged at the collar of his poloneck, trying to make it lie flat.   "Would you stop staring at me like that? You make me feel like the frog in your science class."

Doyle lifted an eyebrow.

With a last impatient tug, Bodie got to his feet and took up his post at the window again. "Look, Doyle, it wasn't our fault. How the devil were we supposed to know he was going to try to beat the light? He didn't even know we were tailing him."

"Didn't he?" Doyle snapped, drawn in against his better judgement. "Why else did he speed up? Why else did he keep looking back?"

"He wasn't!"

"He was, I'm telling you, I saw him. You were too busy practising for the Grand Prix to notice."

"Very funny, Doyle. Chuckle, chuckle."

"Wasn't meant to be." Why he was wasting his breath, he didn't know.

"Anyway, better him than me," Bodie said with a shrug.

"You know, I wish I was like you. Doesn't mean a thing to you, does it? An innocent man dies, murdered in cold-blood, oh, well, all in day's work."

"No one's innocent, Doyle."

"—oh, yeah?"

"—not even you."

Doyle glared at him, momentarily too furious to speak. "That's not what you used to say."

"I said pure, not innocent, not the same thing, is it?" Bodie smiled meditatively. "Of course, if no one is innocent, perhaps we all are."

"You—"

Bodie was closer to him than any woman he had ever loved, and he couldn't stand the sight of him. "And what if it had been me, Bodie, lyin' in my own blood and puke on the tarmac, how would you have felt then? Better me than you?"

"Might," Bodie said.

Doyle wondered how it was possible to convey so much cynicism and contempt in a single word. "I see," he said, cool, cool as the layer of ice forming over his heart.

"You don't see, that's just the problem."

"Don't I?"

Bodie's gaze skittered away. "It's not the same thing," he repeated.

"It never is, with you," Doyle said, wearily. He was wrong. They weren't close. They had never known each other at all.

He heard Bodie sigh, then slow, measured footsteps and Bodie stood stiff and still before him, as if he were held in place by an invisible chain.  "All right, maybe I shouldn't have said that."

"Don't concern yourself on my account."

"Oh, cut it out, Ray."

Doyle pushed him aside and made for the door, but came to a precipitous halt in the middle of the room. There was nowhere to run to.

"Look, if you want to have done with me, say the word and I'll go," Bodie said. "I expect I deserve it."

Crocodile tears, no doubt, Doyle thought. His gaze roamed around his flat, gliding over the paintings he had so lovingly collected over the years, dwelling on his favourite, a copy of a Renoir country scene. But the blue and white impressionistic swirls that used to comfort him were a blur of meaningless colours and shapes now. Like the rest of his life.

He heard a creaking noise and knew Bodie had sprawled himself on the sofa, didn't even have to guess at how he would find him if he turned, eyes closed, legs propped up on the hassock, arm stretched across the backrest, like he owned the damn place.

A word from him and they could go back to being partners and some-time friends. Bodie probably wouldn't even notice the difference.

Doyle sat down the other end of the sofa and buried his face in his hands. But before long he crept closer and closer until his leg pressed against the wide corduroy-clad one. Bodie took no notice of him, but neither did he push him away, so Doyle relaxed. He placed his hand on Bodie's thigh, testing, and after a moment Bodie's arm slid the few inches from the backrest to fall around his shoulders. Encouraged, Doyle laid his head in the hollow of his arm.

He drifted peacefully for awhile, dropping into a light doze.

"Doyle."

"Yeah?"

Bodie took a deep breath, as if bracing to a strain. "I don't want to lose you." He closed his eyes again. "Sounds stupid, I'll bet."

Doyle repressed a smile. God, Bodie could be so dense at times. He put his arms around him and kissed his cheek. "Yeah, stupid," he said. "But that's all right, I love you anyway." He felt Bodie stiffen under his arm.

"Don't you ever say that again, Doyle. Not ever."

"Why not?"

Merciless blue eyes bored into him. "Don't look at me like that." Bodie shoved him away, and stood over him.

Doyle got up slowly, seething with shock and rage. It took every ounce of self-discipline he had to prevent instinct from taking over and sending them tumbling into a fistfight. "What the fuckin' hell's the matter with you? Are you trying to drive me crazy?" he shouted. "'Cause you're succeeding."

Bodie grabbed his hand and pressed it to his cheek. "This is the only thing that matters." His eyes lit with warm dancing malice. "I'll not have you reduce it to the level of a third-rate romance novel."

Doyle yanked his hand back. "One day you're goin' to push me too far, Bodie—" He snatched Bodie's empty tea mug and took it to the kitchen. But instead of rinsing it clean as he'd intended he hurled the mug into the sink where it shattered quite satisfyingly into a thousand fragments.

"What'd you do that for?" Bodie demanded from the doorway.

"What'd you do that for,'" Doyle mocked. "I felt like it," he added. "'S my cup and my sink so what's it to you?"

Through the window, the rooftops stretched out in the distance, jutting like the spine of some great sea serpent. The rain had stopped and a valiant shaft of sunlight poked its way through the cloud-cover. Drops of water clung to the windowpanes and shimmered with rainbow-colours, tiny opals in the sun.

He bowed his head over the sink. "I suppose it's nice to be wanted," he said aloud.

"Even by me."

"I didn't say that.

"You didn't have to."

Doyle stared at the pieces of the mug. The broken-off handle pointed accusingly up at him. Clean it up later, he thought.

Behind him, Bodie made an exasperated noise. "What is it, then? Listen, you worried about the job? It hasn't made any difference so far, has it? Won't make any difference.  I won't let it."

"It ought to make a difference," Doyle said, glancing round at him. “If it doesn't, why bother?"

Bodie's eyes narrowed fractionally. "This is a pointless discussion," he said. "I don't want to talk about it any more." And he walked out the door.

Just like that.

 

XIII.

 

BODIE’S ABRUPT DEPARTURE lengthened into a separation and the separation widened into a rift.

A rift Doyle did nothing to mend.

Where was the point?

On arriving at HQ one morning he discovered Cowley had packed the recruits off for a fortnight with the bomb disposal unit, and the office bustling with activity as preparations for the bank op went forward. A bit premature in his opinion; they had at least another month to wait He carried on his own research, gradually forming a detailed picture of method and procedure until he was sure he could have mounted the raid himself, but he was curiously uninvolved. He felt like he was viewing the world and his job through a transparent membrane which damped sounds and muted colours and left him isolated and drifting in an emotional vacuum. Inside this vacuum, however, his mind was busier than ever.

Bodie retreated into himself like a wolf to its lair, emerging at intervals to prey on Doyle's patience, arrogant and unruffled as ever. Doyle hated him for that. As if the entire affair were of no consequence whatsoever.

He saw little enough of his partner, fortunately, since he didn't trust his temper, though he was beginning to suspect that Cowley had a hand in keeping them apart.

The avalanche of clerical duties set him wondering how much Cowley knew or guessed. Not a chance of finding out, he supposed. Despite his belated attempt to apologise for his outburst, Cowley regarded him with an icy disfavour. Whatever thoughts the old man might have on the subject remained frozen behind pale blue eyes and sealed behind uncommunicative lips.

His r/t remained stubbornly silent the entire week, as if it too, disapproved of him. With time on his hands and the unappetising prospect of paperwork on his desk, Doyle made a point of spending long hours at the gym, working off his frustration.

It would blow over, he assured himself. Cowley had noticed the bad blood between him and Bodie and was trying to keep the peace in his little kingdom.

While the temperature in the office dropped, the heat outside continued unabated

Doyle lay awake, staring at the shadows. Hours ago he had kicked the covers to the floor in a futile attempt to cool off. He would definitely make a point of buying a fan, tomorrow, if he had to pin a note to his sleeve to remind himself. He couldn't take another night like this one.

For inevitably, through each long restless night, his thoughts turned to Bodie. 'S normal, he told himself; to be expected, you got used to him being here, that's all.

He strained his ears for any noise outside, but there was nothing. He'd never really noticed before how quiet the street here was. He could hear the sounds of his own breathing, the whisper of bedclothes as he tried to get comfortable.

Sweat gleamed on his belly and thighs, and he could feel the same dampness in his armpits. He wiped his forehead. Didn't help much, but at least it got his hair out of his eyes. Unbidden, unwanted, the gesture reminded him of Bodie, gently brushing his hair back and stroking his forehead until he was soothed into sleep.

He wished hard, perhaps harder than for anything in his life, that he could take it all back, wipe all the memories out and have things be the way they were, friendly, comfortable, predictable—whatever had possessed him to agree to have sex with Bodie in the first place, he couldn't remember—at least he should have ended it as soon as he saw how it was going to be—

And then he was furious again, furious that it should mean so much to him and so little to Bodie. He'd bet a month's pay that Bodie wasn't lying awake nights worrying about him.

For chrissakes, what was he doing, pining away at his age and after another man. It didn't bear thinking about. He ought to get himself a girlfriend. At least go out and get laid.

But casual relationships no longer had the old appeal. After Ann had ditched him, he had mourned her briefly, then proceeded to cut a sexual swathe across the London bars, embarrassing even the blase Bodie with his rash willingness to fuck anything warm and female. "Christ, Ray, what's got into you? That's the third one this week."

"I thought you were the one who defined nice as under fifty and comes across."

"Carryin' it a bit far, aren't you?"

"What's the matter, Bodie, you jealous?"

It was a shot in the dark, but the pinched lips told him he hit the mark. "Can't stand the idea of me outdoin' you, eh?" he said, driving the point home gleefully. "Bet that puts a dent in your macho image."

"Well, don't come cryin' to me when you get the clap."

And Doyle hadn't. He'd endured the ooze of vinegar and acid in grim silence, fuming.

He smiled now. A long time ago, that.

He'd reverted to his previous more moderate style of pursuing women after that. Until one night, last winter, he'd been sitting in a restaurant with his latest—christ, he couldn't even recall her name any more—and got up, mumbled something about work, and drove her on home. He hadn't had a girlfriend since.

Hadn't wanted one, truth be told. Oh, he still fancied 'em often enough, his eye caught by a pretty figure or a sweet smile. Be odd if he didn't, but like he told Bodie, it wasn't worth it. All the wining and dining as Bodie called it, games he thought it meant, just to get off. Or else another hopeless affair. For some reason he'd never understood, no woman ever seemed to want him for himself, not for very long anyway. They either wanted to use him and his position for some scheme of their own, or else they wanted to change him into something he wasn't.

Or at least, the inner voice of conscience prompted, that was how it seemed to him. Maybe his memories were biased.

"Every woman I've ever loved has left me," he remembered telling Bodie once.

"Yeah, well, every woman I've ever loved has been shot. Think about that."

'S a wonder none of them had shot him, Doyle thought with a malign mirth.

But then, no bird ever got past the suave, well-mannered exterior, did they? If they tried Bodie sent 'em politely packing, and went stalking fresh quarry. He always had a few in reserve. Practical, Bodie was. Doyle had watched this merry-go-round for years, envy mingling with disdain, even made off with a few from under Bodie's nose. Though the girls always spoke fondly of him. Made sense, didn't it though? They didn't know Bodie the way he did. Stubborn, arrogant, callous—

He missed the bastard anyway.

He told himself that what he missed more than anything was Bodie's mere presence. There was comfort in the shared knowledge of things that set them apart from the rest of the world.

CI5 changed you inside, and no one but members of the service could ever understand you afterwards.  It took a certain kind of man to do the job they did, hard, ruthless, having a love of danger, of violence even, and you needed the reassurance that you were not alone in your easy acceptance of death.

At least such were his thoughts in the daytime.

But here, alone in his bed, with the heat weighing him down and stirring his blood, the only fantasies he could conjure were of Bodie.

He turned on his side and buried his face in the pillow that still smelt of Bodie's hair.

Pride and anger had sustained him thus far, but now they slipped away like thieves into the night. He had never known time to pass so slowly.

 

The following day dawned grey and damp.

Right after daybreak, Doyle went to the gym. He told himself it was avoid the crowd, but in truth it was to be certain he would not run into Bodie. After his work-out he took his car to the CI5 garage. Half-a-dozen cars were parked in a neat row alongside the lift, but Rob Morton, the mechanic, was nowhere to be seen. Doyle called out, his voice echoing back to him from the concrete pillars.

Rob unfolded his lanky body from beneath a battered blue Fiesta and came forward, wiping his hands on a rag. "Problem?"

"Nah, just the regular check-up."

Rob shoved the rag in the pocket of his smock and pushed his hair out of his face. There was a black dab of grease on his moustache. "I'll have it back to the motor pool tomorrow."

"Can't I wait?"

"Bit irregular, isn't it?"

Doyle shrugged. Ordinarily he would have checked out another car from the pool before turning his over for maintenance, but it wasn't like he had anything better to do, was it?

Rob looked at the other cars silently waiting. "Well, seeing as how you're here so early—it'll take about an hour, all right?"

"Thanks, mate. I'll be back for it." He heard the click of the bonnet latch as he wandered off, heading for a café he knew a few streets over, stopping to buy a newspaper to pass the time.

The snarl of morning traffic closed in on him as he threaded his way through crowded streets; the air was dense with unfallen rain, and he was glad to slip into the orderly queue at the cafe.

He escaped into the newspaper; when he next glanced at his watch he was surprised to discover that two hours had gone by, and he hurried back to the garage.

Just as well. Rob was nowhere to be seen when he got there. Doyle stood on the pavement gazing up at the sky. It would rain soon, the heavy wet air absorbing the city smells so the odours of dust, grime, oil and garbage mingled and rose to choke the nostrils.

Still, the sight of storm-black clouds crouched over the skyline like pagan idols jealously guarding their citadel never failed to stir him. Gloomy and proud, as if to say we were here in the beginning and we will be here long after you and your kind are gone.

"Looks like a storm coming in," Rob said beside him. "Sorry, going to have to keep it for a few days; needs new seals. But you're in luck; I did manage to finish the Fiesta, so you won't have to go to the pool." He handed Doyle car keys and a receipt. "Next time give us a little warning, will you?"

"Yeah, I will," Doyle said. He got in the Fiesta, checked radio, lights, signals, then waved goodbye to Rob as he pulled out on to the street. Without thinking about it, he got on the M-40 and joined the traffic heading west.

A casual drive in the country might be nice; a chance to get out of town, breathe a little fresh air, take in a few picturesque views...he couldn't face another day at HQ pushing paper.

The distant boom of thunder accompanied him out of London, growing louder as he drove. Soon the storm broke in great torrents of water and wind. Lightning tore and clawed at the billowing clouds with the wrath of a forgotten and dying god, shooting brilliant skeletal fingers across the sky in garish greens and blues and yellows, colouring the world like an inferno painted by Hieronymus Bosch.

Rain lashed the land with fringed whips. He could barely see the roadway before him, but he felt exhilarated nonetheless by the magnificent destructive power of nature. Implacable, majestic in its absolute moral indifference.

Doyle shook his head at himself. Absurd fancies.

A sign on the motorway caught his eye—he'd managed to drive almost to Bellbury. Well, while he was in the area, no reason he couldn't manage a stopover, was there?

Cowley wouldn't like it.

Well, Cowley didn't have to know, did he? Any case, Doyle rationalised to himself, now that Cowley believed the robberies were part of Harris' scheme it should be all right.

By the time he reached his turn-off the rain had subsided into a steady drumming. He got out of the car and stepped directly into a puddle.  Great.  He collected a disapproving stare from the teller as he squished and dripped through the lobby. His ID brought the bank manager scurrying but he hadn't anything to add. The job had come off in under ten minutes, they seemed to know precisely what they wanted and where to find it, confirming Doyle's suspicion of an inside job, particularly since the staff (two tellers and a receptionist) were at lunch.

"And where were you?" Doyle asked the manager.

"I was indisposed that morning," the man said stiffly. Reading the newspaper in the loo, Doyle decided; probably why he was still alive.

He interviewed each of the tellers but they knew nothing at all; there had been no peculiar customers, nothing odd to precede the robbery. All in all, both staff and manager seemed to resent his raking it up again. Insurance had recompensed the losses and they were anxious to get on with their lives.

Doyle thanked them and after an equally unproductive visit to the local police station, went on to Drayford.

Much the same story greeted him there. The staff were courteous, but as they were newly transferred replacements could give very little information. He met the young sergeant who had originally forwarded the case to CI5's attention. He was quite helpful, flattered at the personal attention, quite happy to show Doyle the files and reports on the case. Unfortunately, although the case was still on the books there were no leads.

"But CI5 are on it now, right? Those bastards won't get another chance."

Doyle tried to look wise, a little embarrassed by the man's naive faith in the cachet of CI5. He politely declined the sergeant's invitation home for lunch and opted for a quick bite in pub on the outskirts of town where he talked the owner into switching on the electric fire so he could dry wet shoes.

Half-past two and he had learnt nothing and got himself soaked for his trouble. Another time he would have had Bodie for company at least, and Bodie often noticed things he did not, between them they could piece the case together ten times faster, well that's how it used to be, before... Resolutely, he cut off that line of thought, put his shoes on and paid his bill. Might as well get back to London.

Twenty miles on he finally left the rain behind. The sun hid behind the clouds yet, pouring diffuse golden light in a velvety haze across the still-wet pastures slipping by him.  He wound both windows down to let the newborn scents of grass and trees chase away the stateness accumulated in city heat, and bit by bit, his mood lightened.

He had another hour or so—Why not stop into Westcombe; after all it was on his way—maybe get a feel for whatever it was attracted these guys.

The town clustered about low green hills, the main road winding gently upwards past old Georgian townhouses and two-storey shops. He spotted the bank right off near the top of the hill where it stood out starkly, a glass and steel anomaly among the whitewash and wrought iron. In the rush of late-afternoon shoppers, he had ten minutes of maneovring through traffic and a fierce battle with a middle-aged housewife for a bit of kerb.

Inside the bank was as up-to-the-minute as out, chrome and smoked glass furnishings, sleek counter of gleaming black, a thick grey carpet that created a hush in the air and bespoke a proper reverence for money.

Except one corner of the lobby. Doyle glanced idly about, then stared. The jumble of old furniture hastily stacked away proved on further inspection to be a display of some sort; a few paintings on easels, cherub statuary, and a collection of moulded busts (he recognised Gladstone, but none of the others). The centrepiece was a collage of gaudy posters, newspaper clips, old photographs, all carefully pieced together, flanked by an overstuffed loveseat to one side and two fussy, frilly chairs, legs demurely hidden in a froth of pink ruffles. To complete the ridiculous picture, a young man with shoulder-length blond hair and wire-rimmed spectacles, dressed in jeans and a faded fatigue shirt, strolled out from behind the display and plopped in one of the fragile chairs.

He grinned at Doyle's expression and pointed to a ornately lettered sign bearing the legend Victorian Follies. He shrugged as if disclaiming responsibility for the whole thing, yet if he wasn't part of the exhibit, neither did he fit in with the cool conservative bank decor.

Doyle nodded to him and stepped up to the counter to ask for the bank manager.

The teller was fresh from school, slicked-back hair, regulation pinstripe suit and properly earnest expression. "No, he's away. May I help you, sir?"

"Well, I was thinking of buying some property here, thought I'd make a few enquiries about the local facilities."

The teller launched immediately into a proud recitation of the bank's virtues, their long tradition of service and the particular attention to detail provided by this branch.

"Ah, yes," Doyle said when the teller finally paused for breath, "I still would like to speak with the manager."

After checking his watch, the teller said, "Well, I'm not expecting Mr. Wharton for another half hour. You can wait if you like."

"Thanks," Doyle said. Patience was a virtue, he told himself and wandered over to the exhibit.

The young man gestured broadly as he approached. "Step right up," he said, barker-style, "see the amazing variety of Victorian design. We've got a bit of everything, something for everyone."

Doyle made a face.

"Oh, I'm the caretaker," the man said, in a crisp upper-class accent. "I'm paid to talk like that. You know, hang about, keep an eye on the stuff, chat it up, hand out leaflets." He rose and stuck his hand out. "Kyle Pemberton."

"Ray Doyle." He shook Pemberton's hand. "Sounds a thrill a minute," he said and studied an elephants-head teapot.

Pemberton laughed. "Well, admittedly, the Victorians did some great things with machines, but you have to wonder about their taste." He selected a sceptre-like object and held it up between thumb and forefinger. "Look at this, will you?" Upon closer inspection, it proved to be a candlestick, embellished with pseudo-Greek carvings and a curlicue Rococo trim.

"Dreadful," Doyle agreed. "Are you at university, then?"

"Music student." He mimed playing a violin. "Though some days I want to chuck it all and wallow in decadence and deep philosophy in all-night coffeehouses."

Doyle smiled in reminiscence; the young man brought back the carefree days of art classes. They traded stories for a while, Doyle keeping an eye out for the bank manager.

"Waiting for someone?"

"Nah, thinking about opening an account."

"Mmm. Don't know as Midland's the safest place to put your cash these days."

"How so?"

"Some latter-day Robin Hood's been knocking 'em off."

"Yeah?"

"Didn't you hear about it? It was all over the papers." Doyle turned at the sound of a voice behind him and saw an older man dressed in a shapeless nondescript suit that never went out of style because it was never in style.

"Never   read   the   papers,"   Doyle  said.  "Too depressin'."

Pemberton tipped an imaginary hat. "Mr. Lane, insurance investigator."

The man nodded at him.

"The owner's worried about his precious collection," Pemberton said. "Can you imagine anybody wanting to steal this lot?"

Doyle shrugged. "Who is the owner?"

"A Mr. Adler, I believe," Pemberton said after a moment. He flipped a lock of blond hair off his face. "Never met him. I got this job through an agency."

Lane was staring hard at Doyle as if trying to place him.

"What company did you say you were with?" Doyle asked.

"I'm freelance, you might say." Watery brown eyes studied him shrewdly. "If you're interested in property, I can also do a bit as a building surveyor."

He seemed ordinary enough, but something about the man made Doyle wary. "I might be," he said. "I go with my instincts. And now's the time to invest in a country home. Peace and quiet, all that."

"I wouldn't know," Lane said. He seemed to lose interest in Doyle.

"Say, do you have a card or anything," Doyle asked.

Lane produced a tatty white card, then shuffled away.

Doyle looked at Pemberton, who smiled apologetically.

"Yeah, he's been hanging about all week, asking everyone who stops by what their business is. But since the owner sent him, what can I do?"

Doyle murmured some commiserating noises, watching as Lane drifted over to the front doors. He'd have Lane's credentials checked out as soon as he got back to London.

A discreet cough made him turn.

"I understand you wished to speak with me?" The bank manager, an older carbon copy of the teller. "My office is this way." Doyle gave a quick wave at Pemberton.

Wharton held the door open for Doyle. "We do not offer investment advice, I'm afraid," he said as he closed the door.

"I'm not actually looking for any," Doyle said. He pulled his ID out.

The man studied the card carefully, even to flipping it over and reading the fine print before handing it back to Doyle.

"How can I help you?"

If there were any fissure in the smooth facade of professional courtesy, Doyle couldn't see it.   Briefly, he explained the purpose of his visit. "We've no idea when or even if there will be another attempt, but in the event this branch seems a likely next target."

"Of course, we were greatly distressed by these atrocities and have taken extra security measures, but one has to conduct business. I certainly hope you haven't said anything to upset or frighten my staff."

Doyle shook his head. "Anything or anyone out-of-the ordinary you may have noticed will help."

"Nothing at all."

"How long has your, uh, art exhibit been here?"

"Two weeks." He looked ever so slightly pained. "A whim of one of our directors."

"I don't recall a Mr. Adler being on the board."

"You're quite right. However, you are not here to discuss the board's questionable ventures into cultural relevance."

"Not exactly, no," Doyle said, a little surprised at the sharp tone, "but information about the directors could be useful."

"For that you will have to enquire at our main offices." The man wrinkled his nose. "I'm sure they will be able to supply you more—information—than I can. Now if you'll excuse me, I have work to do."

Doyle thanked him and made his escape.

He debated a visit to the police station, but decided against it. It was getting late and after all, what could the police tell him? The bank was an ordinary bank, in an ordinary town, with ordinary employees. The one peculiarity was the exhibit, but banks were always looking for new ways to attract customers, weren't they? Some sort of publicity stunt, no doubt.

Well, he'd run background checks on all the bank employees.  Something might turn up.

Cheerful despite the lack of concrete facts, he headed back to London. He'd got what he came for, a bit of hands on.

Home to a good nights sleep.

 

Cowley met him in the corridor next morning. "You're with me, Doyle," he said. "My car." He marched on toward the exit without waiting for a reply.

"What's happening?" Doyle asked as Cowley tossed him the keys.

"I've a meeting with the Minister in an hour, and I want to stop off at Waterloo station to get a report on the Harris surveillance."

Great, Doyle thought, now I'm a chauffeur.

The car phone trilled.  "Cowley.  Yes, put him on." There was a pause and Doyle dodged round a taxi. The sky was clear blue and sunny after yesterday's rain, and the trees that lined the Embankment seemed to stand taller, fresh and vibrantly green.

"Yes, yes. No, he was acting on his own. No, no trouble." Cowley hung up the phone. "That was a Mr. Wharton in Westcombe. He wanted to verify your employment."

Not willing to risk a glance in the driving mirror, Doyle concentrated on the traffic.

"May I ask why you disobeyed my orders?"

"You didn't say I couldn't investigate."

"No one was to know CI5 are interested. We can't be seen to overstep our authority."

Startled, Doyle missed his turn and had to circle back. Since when did Cowley scold them for treading on a few bureaucratic toes, and actually mean what he said?

Cowley harrumphed.  "Did you find anything?"

Doyle let out his breath slowly. "Not really." He detailed his trip. "Although the manager got a little touchy when I asked about their directors."

"Suspicious?"

"Could be. Although if I can't ask questions about Harris himself, it's going to be hard to tell." He squeezed the car into a parking space near the entrance and tapped the horn.

Carrying a clipboard, Bodie slid into the back next to Cowley. He deliberately avoided Doyle's eyes. "Bad news, sir."

"Yes?"

"Harris is dead. Gave us the slip last night for a few hours—it cost him. Knifed to death in the Tube." He flipped through the papers on the clipboard. "Police report says robbery appears to be the only motive. Could be a coincidence."

"Aye," Cowley said, "But I don't like coincidences. That lets out Harris as a suspect in any new robberies, though, Doyle, and with it our interest in them."

"There's the armoury," Doyle said.

"If our expertise is requested, we can get involved. Otherwise, no."

"Sir, I think—"

"That will be enough, 4/5."

Doyle's grip tightened on the steering wheel, but he made no further protest.

"Wait a minute," Bodie said. "It could still be connected. You told us Harris was working with someone else, right? I mean, he couldn't have arranged the whole setup on his own."

"Aye." Cowley looked tempted.

Bodie pressed his advantage. "They might still be on."

A second or two went by while their boss seemed to be weighing imponderables before rendering judgement.

"And if it turns out there is no connection? It's thin at best, Bodie, and that makes it too much of a risk for CI5 at this time," Cowley said with a touch of regret. "I'll need to show a stronger link before I can sanction it."

"Well, where are they getting their guns? Got to be some kind of illegal arms sales involved. That's CI5's business."

Cowley shook his head. "It's our business when I say it is. For now, finish up here and report tomorrow for a new assignment."

Bodie opened the car door. His eyes met Doyle's in the driving mirror and Bodie gave him a little, impersonal nod, and got out of the car.

"Drop me at the Ministry, Doyle, and send Miss Pettifer to pick me up at 5.00."

"Yes, sir."

 

 

 

XIV.

 

LATE THE NEXT afternoon, the phone on his desk rang.

"Doyle?"

"Yeah?"

"I was wondering—come round to my place after you're done here?"

Doyle shook his head, forgetting the gesture was wasted over the telephone. "Can't. Things to do. Errands, you know, need to buy a few things." Like a fan, he reminded himself.

"Oh."

The line was silent for a while, except for the faint humming of electricity.

Bodie cleared his throat. "I'm never going to live this down...," he mumbled, before continuing in his usual glib tone, "You've ruined it for me, you know, being on my own."

Doyle sniffed. "Look, I'll think about it, ok?" He rang off without waiting for a reply.

He didn't go, of course, neither to the shops nor to Bodie's flat. But he did think.

He couldn't remember exactly when he had given up hope of normality, of a wife and two kids, a dog even—maybe when he lost Ann, or when Lewis resigned CI5 rather than face a divorce (who'd have thought it?) After all, look at Cowley. Sixty odd years, and not even a whisper of a love affair. Except for the unlikely Miss Irving.

Well, it was easy for Cowley, wasn't it? His short, sturdy frame was held upright by the Gothic architecture of his principles.

As for himself...all he'd ever had were ideals. But along the way they'd been shot to pieces. Somehow the tattered remnants had got tied up with Bodie—and without Bodie, he was adrift. Cowley had his principles to navigate by, but he—he had nothing.

Bodie had sounded a hidden loneliness he believed filled by his work, his hobbies. If he couldn't have what he wanted, he would settle for a companion, someone to be there at the end of the day to offer comfort and warmth against the cold realities of his job. An anchor in his miserable, screwed up life.

He thought of Ann again with sudden longing. But she was not the first lover sacrificed to CI bloody 5, to some expediency. He was tired of it. He wanted something for himself, for once, something no one could take away from him.

At least he would know what he was getting into this time.

He nearly rang Bodie right then and there, but his pride held him back for awhile, pride and a certain innate cautiousness. All that lay ahead threatened far greater risks than he had run till now; he wasn't at all sure he could stay the course he had plotted out. Best not to begin what he couldn't finish. And there was Bodie's reaction to be reckoned with; Bodie might very well laugh in his face.

But he was sick and tired of his own company and beset with images of a barren future. After several more days, on one of those long summer evenings when they used to sit in the local and talk about nothing so terribly important, that Doyle gave in and rang him at home. "All right, Bodie, you win," he said.

"Win what?" Bodie said blandly.

 

Yeah, that was just it, Doyle thought resentfully next afternoon as he waited in the CI5 carpark. Bodie hadn't any concept of the stakes involved.

He folded his arms and leant against the Capri Bodie usually drove and watched the stream of people emptying the building. Turning into a regular nine-to-five place, CI5 was. Then he caught sight of Alex worming his way against the crowd. Well, not quite. The one good thing about being off-listed was not having to take his turn on the nightshift.

The air was filled with fumes as dozens of cars queued up to get out of the carpark. What was taking Bodie so long? Probably chatting up the new girl in the radio-room. For a moment, Doyle wavered. He had told Bodie to pick him up after work, and they would talk. Maybe he should suggest a quick pint and leave it at that.

Bodie appeared at last, dressed all in black. How he stood it in this heat, Doyle couldn't fathom. Far too aware of his own bedraggled state, he watched enviously as Bodie skipped down the steps and strode up to the car, rattling his keys. Crisp and cool, he gave Doyle a brief nod. "'S unlocked," he said.

Life was not fair, Doyle thought, and slid inside; he had scarcely closed the door when Bodie threw it in reverse arid backed out of his parking space. "I had a mind to get some fishing in this weekend; you up for it?"

"Where?"

"My mate Perry still has that old hut up near Harwich."

Doyle thought about it. He remembered the place well enough, an old whitewashed wooden cottage, two rooms and bathroom, modestly furnished. He and Bodie had stayed there once before, but the fishing was lousy. "Yeah, okay. I need to get my gear."

"In the boot," Bodie said.

"Sure of yourself, aren't you?"

"Just like to be ready for anything, you know."

The car zipped around the patient queue into the street.

"Slow down," Doyle snapped, "Don't fancy you gettin' me killed two streets from Cowley's window. What's your hurry?"

Bodie grinned, waggled a suggestive eyebrow at him, though he did cut his speed. A bit. Doyle sighed and resigned himself to the roller coaster ride out of London. Obviously, Bodie meant to simply take up where he left off. Well, Master Bodie had a few surprises coming.

They couldn't go forward just like that, nor go back; they were stuck out somewhere that didn't exist... But to Doyle's relief, Bodie guided the conversation smoothly into the safe haven of routine, filling him on the mop-up of the Harris surveillance, trading office gossip and low-key chat. Doyle relaxed into the temporary reprieve, an interlude of no responsibility, no tension, refusing to consider beyond the moment, instead watching the landscape glide from city to farmland to empty fields dotted with waterways stretched out endlessly before them.

It was still light when they turned off the A12, drove through a succession of timeless villages and reached a deserted stretch of coast.

The sky dipped to meet the horizon like a great blue bowl, sheltering low-lying dunes. In the sudden quiet after Bodie switched off the motor, only the screech of a seagull showed they were not the only living things left.

Standing in the cool air with its smells of salt and fish, he fancied they had blundered from the real world into a another place entirely.

A white dusting of sand lay on the path leading up to the cottage. Bodie unlocked the door and followed Doyle through the vestibule.

As soon as the door closed behind them, he was caught in a tight embrace, Bodie murmuring in his ear, fingers sliding into his shirt.

Doyle thumped him on the back. "I want to talk, Bodie, and I mean it."

"So talk," Bodie said, but he unbuttoned Doyle's shirt, bending to kiss his nipples.

"Bodie!"

"All right." With a sigh of regret and meaningful glance at the soft swelling of Doyle's crotch, Bodie hung up his jacket. Without turning he held out his hand and Doyle shouldered out of his own and handed it over. "I've been thinkin'—"

"Painful, was it?"

Doyle gave that comment as much attention as it deserved. "Been thinkin'" he said again, "'bout all this—" He looked down at himself and buttoned the bottom half of his shirt. He pulled his gun from the holster, ignoring Bodie's mock-cringing, removed the clip and checked the safety before placing it on a wooden buffet that had seen better days, and dumping his holster on top.

Bodie followed suit, then faced him. "Weapons checked, Arbiter, now we can commence negotiation in relative safety."

"Be serious."

"I am," Bodie said, "Perfectly serious," adding, "You're not the only one who can think, y'know."

Doyle considered that, suspicious he was being sent up, but Bodie met his gaze openly and smiled, rather sweetly. Doubt assailed him again and he forgot his carefully rehearsed speech. He let out his breath in a long sigh and blurted, "What do you want from me?"

Bodie frowned, as if the question had caught him off guard. "I just want you," he said after a minute.

The simple dignity of the words imparted to them a significance that eluded the efforts of Doyle's subtle, complex mind to grasp it, and he stood gaping at Bodie, wide-eyed.

Misunderstanding, Bodie put a hand on his shoulder. "I mean it," he said. "I'll do anything for you."

"Yeah," Doyle said. He could feel his resolve weakening under Bodie's steady blue stare. Hurriedly he continued, "Yeah, all right, you got me. With one condition."

Bodie's expression hardened. "Of course. C'mon, let's get the car unpacked."

In the rapidly fading daylight, they carted the stuff inside, and Bodie busied himself laying out the bedding, stowing clothes in the old chest of drawers, while Doyle deposited the food in the tiny kitchenette, then opened the front windows to let in the soft rumble of the sea. He was checked to see there was firewood for the fireplace, and was opening the flue when he heard Bodie behind him.

"So, what hoops do I have to jump through to get you?" Bodie said without preamble.

"You're not taking this seriously," Doyle said. He stood up and dusted off his hands.

"I don't take it seriously, you're right, I don't take anything seriously. You only take something seriously if you believe it's going to last." He crossed his eyes and stuck his tongue out at Doyle.

"That's just what I hate, Bodie, you acting like this is all a lark, another thrill. Christ, every day, every single day, we're in the middle of a nightmare. I don't need that when I come home. I wanted a more normal relationship."

Bodie's amused calm evaporated. "Normal? You must be out of your mind. We're two guys who get paid to kill people."

"We do not get paid to kill people."

"You know what I mean. How the hell are we supposed to be normal?"

"An' you know what / mean. Normal between us."

Bodie rubbed his hand across his face. "Don't start. Not now."

"I'm not starting anything," Doyle snarled.

"If you're prattin' on about true love, forget it. That's for girls, for gettin' 'em to come across. You and me, we don't need that."

"No," Doyle said. So that was all love was to Bodie, a word, nothing else. He didn't press the point. As long as he knew where he stood he could do without declarations of undying affection. Especially from Bodie; be a pack of lies, any case. "No," he said again, "but I hate not knowing from day-to-day what's going on or if you're going to be there."

"That's half the fun, not knowing," Bodie said gravely, and Doyle wasn't sure if he was joking or not.

He rushed on, afraid he'd lose his nerve. "Mainly I want to be able to count on you bein' there when I need you."

"Aren't I always?"

"In a word, no."

"Oh ye of little faith," Bodie said. "Trust me. Anything else?"

"That's all," Doyle replied, then his mood changed again, "no, not quite. I want some say in the when and where," he sent Bodie a sly look from under his lashes, "and the how. And I wish you wouldn't jump every time I touch you."

"Is that it?"

Doyle sniffed. "Can't think of anything else."

"You've missed something out of your little laundry list, haven't you?" Bodie said softly.

Doyle half-shook his head.

Bodie let go his hands and started to pace, nervously shoving his fists in his pockets. "You've no idea?"

"What're you on about?" Doyle said, hard-edged impatience creeping into his voice.

Bodie came right up to him and searched his face, eyes blazing and intent, then he turned away. "Nothing."

"Don't give me that."

" 'Oh, what can ail thee, knight-at-arms'" Bodie said darkly.

Doyle was more than a little annoyed; not three minutes after he had told Bodie what he wanted and here was Bodie playing hide and seek again. Well, he had laid down the law and he was going to enforce it. He put his hands on Bodie's shoulders and compelled him around.  "Spill it, Bodie. What've I left out?"

Bodie's mouth set in a mutinous line, and he glanced off towards the window. Then he looked at floor. "Only me. Never said you wanted me."

As he might study a stranger, Doyle took in the proud tilt of his head, the vivid colouring of his face, pale skin and blue eyes intensified by slate-black hair and lashes, the mouth pushed forward in a pout that Bodie fancied as menacing, but which Doyle now saw as sultry and inviting. Unconsciously his expression softened, his eyes went misty. "Idiot. Of course I do, think I'd be making a fool of myself if I didn't?"

Bodie shrugged.  "I suppose it'll have to do."

"Goddammit! I don't want to be left out in the cold when you get bored. I want fair warning when you decide it's time to move on.  What is wrong with that?"

Bodie turned away in a sudden movement, spun back and considered Doyle as a cat might consider a bird in a cage. "You don't know what you're talking about." A flat statement.

"Come on, Bodie, a little commitment is not too much too ask."

"A little—" Bodie shook his head and laughed. "And how shall I measure out the proper amount?" he said, eyes sparkling with malicious humour.

"Oh, very amusing, I'm sure." Should have known better, Doyle told himself, trying to ward off the barb of disappointment, and failing miserably. He gazed up at Bodie with no idea of what to do next.

Bodie stared back, all trace of flippancy vanished, and Doyle saw his own uncertainty mirrored there, together with a gathering force that might have been anger or desperation, Doyle did not know.

"All right," Bodie said violently, and grabbed Doyle's hands, enclosed them with his own. At once his features resolved into calm. "I'll never leave you," he said, underlining each word with a squeeze. "Never, I promise."

His expression remained serene until at last Doyle nodded, then the corners of his mouth lifted irrepressibly and his eyes began to dance again. "You'll have to shoot me to get rid of me."

"Yeah, well, I just might do that," Doyle said, but he was grinning far too much himself for the words to convey any threat. "Now can I have a bath?"

Bodie seemed to be thinking about this very hard, because his brows knitted together as if he was in pain. His reply when it came caught Doyle entirely off balance. "Only if I can watch."

Reduced to a heap of helpless giggles Doyle never quite worked out how his clothes ended up on the floor so quickly. He had the passing thought that his laughter was crazily inappropriate; it wasn't that funny, but he didn't care.

"Come on, Goldilocks," Bodie said, having stripped off his own clothes, and hauled him off to the bath, lifted him bodily over the side of the bath and stepped in behind him. The drenching shock of cold water quashed his laughter, but not his giddiness. When Bodie gathered him close and kissed him Doyle was left too breathless to live in any but the present moment.

He took his turn under the speedily warming spray first, scrubbing away all the sweat and grime accumulated over several days, chuckling and wriggling as he tried to fend off Bodie's hands with little success and got a mouthful of water for his trouble.

"You're a mess," said Bodie, "Haven't seen so much dirt come off one person since—well, in years."

"Some of us are able to rise above such mundane concerns," Doyle said loftily.

They traded places and he watched while Bodie soaped himself with brisk efficiency, covering his chest with a translucent glaze, watching Doyle in return. Then Bodie turned and ducked his head under the shower. A cloud of steam billowed up and enveloped him as water cascaded down the sculpted curves of his back, caressed hills and hollows of muscle and flowed into his waist, pouring outwards round his deeply-fleshed buttocks and into the cleft. The heat lent his skin the patina of tempered china.

Doyle's eye was drawn to the old knife-scars over his shoulder blade, souvenirs of the only serious injury Bodie had sustained for CI5 in the line of duty. Unlike Doyle, who had suffered the common run of bullet-wounds, burns and broken bones, Bodie seemed surrounded by an invisible aura that shielded him from danger.

But now as he stood unaware of Doyle's scrutiny, naked and vulnerable, he did not seem invincible at all, but fragile in the way of all men, the faded scars a chilling reminder of the terrible ease with which the human body can be destroyed.

Doyle bent forward to kiss the jagged triangle.

"Morbid bugger, aren't you?" Bodie commented.

"Who says?" Doyle replied, unperturbed. All at once he was alive to his fingertips, every sense tingling with anticipation.

He slipped his arms around Bodie's stomach and hugged him close. Desire stirred and flickered through his body when Bodie pressed back and he felt the corded flex of buttocks nudging his belly. He laid his cheek on Bodie's spine, standing quite still, overcome with the feel of the slick strong body tucked into his own.

"Bodie," he said, sliding his hands over Bodie's chest as seductively as he knew how. "I want to fuck you."

"Do you?" coolly, but Bodie didn't throw him off. He went on rinsing his hair like nothing had been said.

Doyle waited for more, revelling in the feel of muscles tensing and releasing with Bodie's movements. "You gonna let me?" he said finally.

He looked up, saw a flash of blue as Bodie inspected him from the comer of his eye, then his lashes fluttered down. "'Course," Bodie said and turned the water off with a flick of the wrist.

Unearthing a towel, Bodie presented it to him with a courtly bow that started him giggling again. He hopped out of the bath and gave himself a few perfunctory swipes, passed the towel over and waited for Bodie to do the same. But Bodie went about the task with his usual maddening deliberateness, carefully drying chest and arms. Droplets glistened in his hair and formed a crystal halo around the dark head, blending into a shine as he ran a methodical comb over the wet strands.

Doyle gave up when Bodie exchanged the comb for the razor. He snatched up the discarded comb and tugged it through his own hair.

He batted his lashes at Bodie's blurred reflection, watched him wipe off the last traces of shaving cream, and before he could reach for the aftershave Doyle's hand was there.  "I hate that stuff," he said.

Bodie looked at him as though he was demented, then put the bottle down. "Your turn," he said, and indicated the razor, "Don't fancy havin' me alabaster skin gettin' all scratched."

"Oh, what a way with words he has," Doyle said, but he did as he was told, finding himself foolishly pleased at sharing the little rituals he'd performed for years without a second thought.

No longer hurried, he finished shaving and cleaned out the razor. His skin prickled with pleasure. He felt like he did just before a raid, a delicious, tense alertness, a sense of sliding inexorably towards the moment when the first shot rips through the air.

"You're dripping on the floor," Bodie complained.

Doyle smiled archly.

Bodie sighed. "What am I going to do with you?" He grabbed the towel and knelt to pat him dry.

"Don't fuss, Bodie. I want to go to bed."

"Whatever you say." Bodie tossed the towel aside and catching Doyle off-guard, picked him up him as easily as if he were a girl and carried him on to the bedroom.

"Something's wrong here," Doyle said, "Got it all backwards, you do. I should be carryin' you, under the circumstances."

"A little thing like you? You couldn't carry me if your life depended on it."

"Wanna bet?"

Bodie gave a grim little laugh. "No," he said, "I'm already over my limit." He set Doyle on the bed and stepped away, closing his eyes.

Doyle leant back, settling his weight on his palms, and looked him over. "What d'you mean?" he asked absently, but Bodie didn't answer. Long legs obscured by shadow as though hidden in rock, he stood Doyle's inspection motionless as marble, as if captured and imprisoned by an ancient sorcery.

Imprisoned, but transformed, an artist's dream in the flesh, from the sinuous bulge of bicep and the planed sweep of broad shoulders to the smooth bare swelling of chest over concave arch of ribs. A thin vertical line of black hair graced his abdomen, following the cleavage of muscle that separated his torso into symmetrical halves. His cock lay partially roused along the powerful curve of his thigh, gleamed softly white against the damp black curls of his groin. It stirred under Doyle's gaze, perhaps from the slight draught in the room, and he felt his own lift and harden in answer.

Standing before him thus, Bodie was something fantastic, beyond his reach.

A shiver whispered up Doyle's spine, raising the hairs on the back of his neck at the audacity of what he proposed to do to the silent figure passively awaiting his touch.

He got to his knees, bringing their heads on a level. Freshly shaved, Bodie's skin looked exquisitely soft, finely-spun. Inky lashes fanned across his cheekbone. Doyle touched them with a tentative finger. Soft, softer than a sable-brush. After a moment, he took Bodie's face in his hands and kissed him. Hesitant, asking permission.

Bodie remained unmoved, as if he were indeed the statue Doyle had imagined him to be. He wanted to shake Bodie, rouse him somehow, anything to bring him to life, but his nerve deserted him. Bodie's eyes flew open, something smouldering in their brilliant midnight depths, as though all his vitality were trapped inside. Deeper and deeper grew the colour and meaning in them, compelling, ordering him on.

He ran his hands down Bodie's sides and over his hips.

"You're so cold," he said, "Stone cold."

Abruptly, he bent his head and touched his mouth to a nipple.

A thrill coursed through him when the nipple puckered under his tongue and his head was enfolded and pressed into Bodie's chest. He sucked each nipple in turn, until they were rosy and the skin around them flushed.

He took Bodie's shoulders and coaxed him down on the bed. He kissed him again, forcing his lips apart with a gentle tongue, squeezing his arms, urging him onto his back. Crouched alongside, he threaded his fingers through Bodie's hair, smoothed it off his forehead.

Even in the half-dark, he sensed Bodie's eyes upon him, and so made a display of his touches, and of himself, gave his every gesture all the grace and artistry he had acquired in his life.

He traced the veins in the other man's neck, soothing straining tendons, brushing his Adam's apple, fluttering fingertips against his throat. With his free hand he reached for Bodie's cock, felt it stiffen and fill his palm, and began to masturbate him the way he had learnt Bodie loved, fast and hard.

And was rewarded by a soft moan breaching the long silence, kindling his own arousal and inciting him to surpass himself.

Bending forward, he rubbed his nose down the centre of Bodie's chest to the slope of his belly, lingered there, intoxicated by the faint odor of his body. He pressed his lips into the tender hollow under the hipbone, inhaled deeply, for the nameless heady aroma was stronger here. Without hesitating, he sank his mouth round Bodie's cock, suckling softly in a way he knew would inflame but not overpower. He withdrew to admire his creation, as rosy now as the nipples.

Of its own accord, his hand went out to touch it, daintily, fingers slipping down the velvet length.

Bodie lay with one arm stretched over his head, eyes half-closed. His other hand closed around Doyle's wrist. "C'mere."

Doyle went, covering Bodie's body with his own. "Right all along, sunshine," he said, husky, "You are beautiful."

"Been tellin' you that for years," Bodie drawled, "Knew you'd see the light one day." But his eyes were dark, unsparkling, holding steady on Doyle's.

Doyle pressed himself close, felt Bodie's heart hammering away against his. "You're shaking," he murmured, and kissed him, felt his mouth tremble. "What is it?" he whispered. "Scared?"

An eyebrow quirked up. "Oh, yeah," Bodie said, "terrified."

"Are you?"

Bodie sighed.

"Don't be," Doyle said. "I don't want you to be."

Bodie's arms tightened painfully around him, his face hidden away in Doyle's shoulder.

"Aw, don't, now," Doyle pleaded, stroking his hair and nudging at him with his nose. "It's all right, c'mon, let me kiss you—"

After a moment, Bodie lifted his head.

Doyle held his face and kissed him, breathed in his breath until he was lightheaded from it.

"Ray."

"You want to change your mind? 'S all right if you do."

"No."

"It'll be good, you'll see."

Bodie's gaze met his, calm and fearless.

Doyle's throat collapsed in on itself.

Bodie slapped him on the hip. "Come on, then." He turned on his side, back to Doyle and drew his knees up.

Doyle stared at him, his mind blank, aware of nothing except the awful desire to seize him and make Bodie his for once and for all.

Memory returned with sudden clarity: the image of Bodie washed in moonlight, inlaid with the feel of Bodie's mouth, kissing his fear away, tongue probing him intimately, wet and sweet. A wave of pure lust rose and dashed over him. He was shaking so hard, he could hardly control his fingers as they parted Bodie's legs and he knelt, touched his lips to the curve of his buttock, slipped down, searching deeply with his tongue for the tiny indentation and lapped there, guided by the quiet animal noises Bodie was making.

He raised his head, witless, and glanced about, spotted a bottle of lotion Bodie had apparently set out on the night stand and snatched it up, blindly stroked the stuff over himself. Then he slid one hand up to curl around the soft cool weight of Bodie's testicles, with the other parted him further.

Gently, he worked his finger past the tight opening, felt a clench of muscle, waited until it relaxed. Carefully, he fitted his erect, throbbing cock into the cleft, inched closer, pressing his chest to Bodie's back. He looped one arm under Bodie's shoulder, clutching the pillow for support, slipped the other round his waist, feeling taut belly muscles quiver to his touch.

And carefully, gently, he sheathed himself in the dark recess of Bodie's strangely pliant body.

He had never in his life felt anything like it. He felt he was falling, falling into an abyss of tangible light, thick and sweet, and he was suffocating on it. So swamped by the sensation of vibrant, living flesh welded to his, he no longer knew what he was doing.

Instinct took over, the age-old masculine need to possess; he thrust hard and deep. It had been so long since he had fucked anyone, and Bodie was so exciting, different, warm and beautifully, incredibly slick.

"Christ, Bodie, you feel good," he murmured, withdrawing and thrusting again, "so tight and hot, I couldn't've imagined."

A tremor ran through Bodie's body.

"Did it feel like that when you did it to me, it must have done."

Bodie groaned.

Doyle halted mid-thrust, afraid he'd hurt him, and tried to soothe, stroking long even strokes from shoulder to hip. "Hey, all right, mate?"

He lifted his head, desperate for a glimpse of Bodie's face, could barely make out the sweat-dappled cheekbone, the eyes screwed shut, in agony or ecstasy he couldn't tell.

"Do you like it, Bodie? I want you to—"

Tears burned dry and hot behind his lids. It would be unbearable to be alone in this.

In answer Bodie took his hand and squeezed it hard, then brought it down, allowing Doyle's fingers to trail through the dense patch of hairs, to his cock, and held it there, dictating its movement.

He was rock-hard under Doyle's fingertips, and throbbing, Doyle could feel the pulse-beat of his blood along the shaft.

For the first time in his life Doyle realised that joy might rush upon the heart like a wild beast and tear it until every breath was lost.

"Yeah," Bodie whispered, his own breath short and shallow, "I love it."

The words liberated something in his chest, loosened his tongue, he was babbling and he didn't care. "Oh god, Bodie I love it, too, never felt this way before, 's crazy I should be wantin' you this much—" He buried his face in black silky hair and renewed his thrusts, painfully slow lest he should lose control and fall off the edge right there and then.

"Go on," Bodie said, "Do it harder."

Responding to the urgings of Bodie's body, he obeyed. His hand tightened around Bodie's cock; he felt it twitch, as if in frustration; Bodie pressed back slightly, joining his fingers with Doyle's to encourage his strokes.

"Goin' to make you come, lover," Doyle promised him, "an' then it'll be my turn."

Bodie growled deep in his throat, and his head tilted back, his helpless excitement spurring Doyle on.

"Yeah, you'll love that too, you'll see, me goin' off inside you, feels like nothin' else in the world."

Bodie grew more urgent, his muscles clenching and releasing Doyle's cock with each thrust, and his soft groans of pleasure drenched Doyle's senses. He let himself go, sweetness building inside and all around him, not knowing or caring whether he was thrusting into Bodie or Bodie into him. He knew only that they were one now, brothers in ecstatic anguish.

The tight lock of leg muscles; Bodie's cock spasmed in his hand.

He came down slowly, as if from a drug-high, heard himself saying Bodie's name over and over in a voice no longer his own, and wrapped his arms around Bodie's chest and squeezed, kissing his neck and shoulders and as much of his face he could reach.

He wriggled closer to keep from slipping out of him. Bodie didn't try to pull away, nestled closer even, and Doyle fell asleep like that, one hand securely entwined with Bodie's.

 

"God, I hate fishing."

"Shhh." Bodie concentrated on his line as if he could will the fish to take the bait.

They had been fishing for all of twenty minutes and Doyle was already bored. He was too happy, too filled with bubbling energy to stand still. The sky was dull and overcast, but the vast space of sea and sand made him want to race along the stretch of the beach screaming out his freedom.

Bodie, however, was content to stand at attention, not moving as the waves rippled past his knees.

Doyle sloshed closer. "Those waders are ravishing on you, mate, but I think mine have sprung a leak."

Bodie ignored him.

"Did you ever think how the fish feel?" Doyle mused. "Put yourself in their place. What if you were in this restaurant and you bite down on this lovely bit of roast beef, and suddenly you have this nasty hook in your lip. It seems dishonest somehow. It's entrapment. If we do it in our line of work, the case is thrown out of court—"

"Fish aren't people," Bodie growled.

"Guess what Jaws said after he ate Richard Dreyfus."

"He didn't eat Richard Dreyfus."

"Whoever it was. 'People aren't fish.'" Doyle laughed at his own joke.

Bodie's lips quirked, but he carried right on fishing.

Doyle reeled in his line and tossed the rod back onto the sand. "How long are we going to stay out here, anyway?"

"We only just started here, Doyle." Bodie took his fishing very seriously. "You're not stopping already, are you? Fishing requires patience." His eyes narrowed as he looked at his partner.   "Patience and quiet.  Like a stake-out."

"I'll just watch you," Doyle said sweetly.

After a minute of silence, he added, "Bit of a busman's holiday, innit, staking out the fish."

Bodie shrugged.

Doyle tried another tack. "God, you're gorgeous. Let's go back and fuck."

To Doyle's amazement, Bodie actually blushed. "I thought you were going to watch me fish?"

"No, I said I was going to watch you. I have. Now I want you."

"And I want to fish," Bodie returned stubbornly, fighting a grin.

"Okay, it was just an idea. Fucking, I mean."

"Shut up, Doyle!"

"What, are the fish homophobic?"

"Of course," Bodie retorted. "That's why it's a mistake to use a feather boa as bait."

Doyle snickered. "So put a pair of boxing gloves on the hook."

"Or cowboy boots," Bodie shot back.

"Yeah, or chaps—whoops, now we're back to gay stuff. I always wondered about John Wayne. Why do you think he walked like that?"

He finally had Bodie laughing. Now, if he could just get him to put down the bloody fishing rod.

But he underestimated the sportsman in Bodie. "Okay, Ray, either pick up your rod and fish, or go take a walk. I'm determined to catch something."

"Hope you catch the clap," Doyle muttered as he stomped up to the beach and picked up the rod. He threw the hook out with the force of all his frustration.

A few minutes later, however, Doyle yelped. "I got something!"

"Jerk up, hook him!"

"What if it's a her?"

"Damn it, Ray!"

"It feels big!" Doyle said, a little awed in spite of himself. He reeled in frantically.

The fish leapt from the water in a fountain of silver, rainbows flashing in the sunlight —damn, where had the sun come from, a sudden beam from behind him—then slap! went the fish back into the sea, heavy now, too heavy to hold onto, better this way really, too beautiful to capture, but still he wanted it, to capture that silver shimmer if only for a moment—

Then Bodie was there, the net dipped down, and up it came. The fish, Doyle's own fish.

"Cripes, I did it!" Doyle turned to Bodie, met the merriment in those blue eyes with a laugh. "I bloody well did it!"

Bodie swooped in, kissed him, and Doyle leant into it, drinking him in, Bodie and the morning mist and the silver rainbow, the sunbeam warming the marble planes of Bodie's face.

Doyle broke off, laughed with a bone-deep joy.

Bodie brushed the curls back from Doyle's face. "All right, sunshine, you win. Let's go back."

Doyle shook his head. "Not now, Bodie, I'm just getting the hang of it."

Bodie reached behind Doyle, slid his finger between the gaps of the waders. "Come on, Ray. You wanted to a minute ago."

"Yeah, but not now.   Oi!   Don't drop it, that's my fish!"

"Hardly a fish. More of a minnow."

"You're just jealous."

"Beginner's luck. Come on, Ray, it's starting to rain."

"It's barely spitting."

Actually, rain was beginning to drip off Doyle's curls and down the back of his collar. The sunbeam was gone, and the only warmth left was in Bodie's eyes.

Bodie grinned at him, a definite gleam in those eyes. "You look like a drowned moggy. It suits you."

Doyle chased him halfway back to the cottage.

 

Fire inside, cold out. There was nothing finer, Doyle thought, stretching out on the rug. The rain beat against the windows, and a little draught tried to catch him from under the door, but he hid behind Bodie's body, selfishly using the heat for his own comfort. Bodie didn't seem to mind.

"Ah," Bodie said. "'Quonset,' on a double word score. That puts you out of the running, I think."

Doyle grinned and played his ace, laying his letters in front of an earlier effort. "J-U-X-T-A. Read 'em and weep."

"Juxta-pose? That's not a word."

"'Fraid it is, my son. I didn't fail art theory for nuffin'."

"What is it when it's at home, then?"

"Putting things next to other things." He wrapped his free arm around Bodie's shoulders. "Like you'n me, mate."

"Do tell. Should've realised you'd know all the exotic poses, juxta or otherwise."

Doyle's revenge for that made Bodie spill his letters across the board. But Bodie recovered and laid them out with the single-mindedness of a chess master in the championship game.

"'Art' to 'artillery,'" Bodie finally announced with satisfaction. "And a triple word score at that."

Doyle grimaced.  "Must you always do that?"

"Be exceedingly clever? Can't help it, mate, just born that way."

Doyle rolled up, sat before the fire. "Not that. Must you always make everything so...military."

Bodie shrugged it off. "It's our job, Doyle. Just like the Boy Scouts; be prepared."

"Maybe we're too prepared.  Obsessed maybe."

"Can never be too prepared. Practice makes perfect."

"And you're perfect, I suppose?"

Doyle had said it lightly and was surprised by the uneasy expression in Bodie's eyes before he gave a rueful smile and answered, "No, I'm just very, very good." At Doyle's snort, Bodie added darkly, "The Chinese say there are only two perfect men—the unborn and the dead. So I still have the chance to be perfect."

The icy chill on the back on Doyle's neck had nothing to do with the draught. But he was unwilling to have the mood change, so he tickled Bodie's foot. "You're a perfect nuisance, that's what you are. You've certainly plenty of practice there. On the other hand," and he moved his fingers into slow slide up Bodie's leg to his thigh, "there are some areas where you could use a little work."

Bodie smiled lazily. "Now we know what's on your mind, don't we? Not so fast, my son, first I have to finish mopping the floor with you."

"We'll see about that," Doyle said. "It's my turn now."

The words quickly became blatantly erotic in tone, if not downright obscene. This led to other games that didn't require a dictionary.

They slept right there before the fire, and Doyle stared into it for a long time, Bodie a wall of warmth behind him. Fire, he thought. Captured sunlight. Fire caught in wood, in coal, in paraffin. Did it ever hide in marble? Could warmth be found in a heart of stone?

It must, he thought. The earth had fire inside—the deeper you went, the more the heat. And that's where he was headed, deeper and deeper to the core of Bodie. What would he do when he reached it? Burn like Icarus? No, Icarus went too high. Deep was safer—you couldn't fall.

But you can still burn, a voice inside him whispered. He ignored it. The fire threw back flashes of wild joy. He remembered the fish, all silver and mist, making rainbows in the sunlight it never would have seen on its own. Did the fish know that it was beautiful in the moments before it died? If it knew, might it not choose to die in that way, to touch the beauty of heaven for one dazzling instant?

Had Icarus known joy even as he burned?

Doyle smiled sleepily. Fire was danger, but fire was life.

 

_(to be continued)_

 

 


	2. Part 2

**July**

  

XV.

 

DOYLE TOOK THE STAIRS three at time, effortlessly, flying into the office without a thought in his head. If he felt any more alive he would lose contact with the earth altogether.

He glanced up, saw Bodie waiting for him outside the double doors, and his smile was the oldest enchantment in the world.

Bodie sucked in his breath.  "Stop that."

"Stop what?"

"Stop lookin' at me as if I were the answer to all your prayers. Might as well hang out a neon sign for everyone to see."

Doyle composed his features into a scowl. "That better?"

"Lunatic."

They fell into step together down the corridor, Bodie grim, taciturn, in world of his own; Doyle silent as well.

"What're you grinnin' about now?" Bodie said gruffly. "You figured out how to get Cowley to give you a rise or something?"

"Nah. Just happy, I guess."

Bodie gave him a sharp look. "Oh, and how would you define happiness?"

Unwilling to have his present well-being further disturbed, Doyle considered the question only half-seriously. "I don't know. The absence of pain."

"That only happens when you're dead. Or dead-drunk."

Doyle shrugged, refusing to be provoked. "Maybe I am?" He delivered a mock-punch to Bodie's midriff. "See you later."

At Cowley's door, they parted ways, Doyle inside, and Bodie off to—wherever he went these days—Doyle realised with a start that he didn't really know what Bodie got up to any longer. After years of spending most working days in his company it was strange not to have the familiar presence hovering next to his elbow as they went about on CI5 business. Like looking back to find your shadow missing.

A tiny finger of apprehension probed his contentment.

He brushed the doubt aside. Bodie would relax and pick up the thread of their previous working relationship soon enough.

He closed the door behind him, and stood thinking, while he waited for Cowley to acknowledge his presence. When this bank job was over, he would convince Cowley to put them back on the active list and they could get back to routine.  More or less.

"You're looking well, 4.5."

"Oh, yeah, I'm fine." He smiled blindingly, to cover his distraction.

Cowley smiled as well, inadvertently no doubt, for his expression quickly became stern again. "I trust you have resolved your little crisis and we will have no more displays of pique."

"No, sir." The blinds were open for a change, Doyle noticed, letting sunlight and warmth into the usually drab room. He relaxed.

"Well, I'm a busy man," Cowley said, but he set down the volume of patent applications he'd been reading. "So what is it you wanted to see me about, Doyle?"

"You know that Harris, the one who was killed?"

"Yes."

"Been round to see the wife—said I was with the police, tyin' up loose ends..."

"And?"

Doyle kicked at the wastebasket with one scuffed toe. "Can't say exactly, sir. Something's not right about this business, it's all too pat. I don't know, she acted like she was expectin' me—grieving widows aren't usually so friendly. Trustees sold the house, and she was packin' up..." He had a vision of the place, thick pile carpet and heavy brocaded drapery, ceiling so high he got a headache looking up at it, antique chairs he had been afraid to sit on... "Showed me round like I was the long-lost cousin, eager to let me see every nook and cranny."

Cowley took off his glasses and wiped a hand across his forehead.  "Aye, that is a bit odd."

Doyle decided to overlook the implied insult. "She had this glazed, dreamy expression the whole time; I've seen that look before—and the nice discreet circle of needle marks round her ankle. She's an addict, no two ways about it, and I'm sure she's involved. I'd like permission to have her checked out. And the estate."

"Very well. I'll put someone on it." He went back to his reading.

Doyle hesitated. Cowley was in a fairly approachable mood—he was tempted to confess the situation with Bodie, might make things easier. Any whisper of misconduct, there'd be a tedious scandal for sure, or worse, they'd be liable to blackmail and Cowley would be none too pleased. To say the least.

Well, it wasn't like they were moving in together, or anything daft like that. In fact, there had been no noticeable change in their routine. And partners often spent a lot of time in each others company off-duty, sacked out at each other's places, nothing suspicious in that. And no one cared these days, did they?

His conscience pricked him anyway. He assuaged it with the thought that Bodie was far more paranoid than he was, and if Bodie wasn't worried, why should he be?

Cowley was glowering at him over the black rim of his glasses. "Are you going to stand there all day, Doyle? Go on, get out of here."

Doyle got.

 

XVI.

 

WHISTLING, DOYLE HOPPED out of the car and vaulted over the white-flowered hedgerow. He tramped across uncut grass to the rickety fence and pulled a target nicked from CI5's indoor range out of his holdall, along with a hammer. A few sparrows twittered in the fir trees clustered beside him as he lifted the target onto the fence and nailed it in place.

He preferred outdoor practise; was more like the real thing, though for pinpoint accuracy the target was necessary. He also liked the privacy of the place; though most of the operatives had used it at one time or another, as witness the scores of old bottles and cans lying about and the scarred bark of the trees behind the fence, he was one of the few who came here regularly. Apart from Bodie.

Not that he got much opportunity lately. Between the bloody class and the afternoon paperwork, he hadn't done any shooting in over a month. That was why he was here. He didn't want to lose his edge.

The sun had burnt off the morning mist, leaving a clear blue sky dotted with powdery white clouds. He collected several cans and lined them up along the fence. Satisfied, he marked off the proper distance and squinted at the target. Bright red and black, it looked harsh in the early morning light, with surrounding colours scarcely stated in the fresh air, delicate, yet distinct, like a Gainsborough landscape. Even the flowering bushes nearest him had the pastel tones of distance. All was silent. He fired a few experimental rounds. The sound of wood splintering rent the peaceful morning.  He adjusted the sight.

A twig snapped behind him; he spun into a half-crouch, gun at ready. The bushes parted and Bodie appeared, half a dozen young men and women trotting in his wake like chicks after a mother hen.

At his order they fanned out into a neat row. In a few moments the air was thick with smoke. Bodie strolled back and forth, a little swagger to his shoulders, a bounce to his step, pausing here and there to comment on their techniques.

Great, Doyle thought. He looked over the batch of recruits, the ones he'd be starting with soon. His eye was caught by one of the women. Bodie stood next to her, cheek to cheek, guiding her arm into proper firing position.

He stepped back and she squeezed off a shot. Bodie nodded his approval, and moved on.

She reminded him of a girlfriend he'd had, same short brown hair and big blue eyes, same fresh complexion; but he wasn't thinking about her face any more, no what he really remembered were her breasts, they were fantastic, soft and round, fitted right in his palm, tiny rosebud nipples...

The woman sensed his stare because she turned to look at him. He gave her an impersonal smile and let his eyes travel slowly past her to the line of trees beyond. Christ.

He tugged nonchalantly at his suddenly tight jeans.

His glance touched Bodie's and with a guilty start, he looked away. Bodie was beautiful, he loved the animal grace and power of him, hard muscles and smooth skin, the strength of his body, but he couldn't help it, every so often he longed for the feel of a woman's body with soft, baby-soft skin and yielding curves, wanted to press himself into that softness, be engulfed by her submission. Well, you can't have everything, he told himself with black humour.

Doyle had been given to fantasising wildly in the past but it seemed to have tapered off in the last few years, until now. Since he'd been at it with Bodie, the tendency had returned with a rush. Would be easier to control if Bodie didn't keep egging him on. Incorrigible, Bodie was.

He told him so when Bodie sauntered past.

"We aim to please," Bodie said.

"So this is where you've got off to," Doyle said. "Enjoyin' playing drillmaster, are you?"

Bodie nodded, unperturbed.

"Say, how come you get the easy job? I'm a better shot than you."

"Ah, but you don't know how you do it."

Doyle emptied the clip into the centre of the target. The holes made a perfect circle. "How about that, then?"

Bodie affected an air of lofty condescension. "Instinct, son, 's what I said, isn't it?"

Vaguely insulted, Doyle sniffed and made to turn his back.

"Some of us had to learn the hard way," Bodie explained kindly.    "And so we're better qualified to show the other hapless souls who haven't got so much of the old killer instinct."

"Thanks a lot," said Doyle.   His attention wandered back to the woman he'd been watching earlier.

Bodie followed his gaze.  "Nice, that," he said.

"Yeah," Doyle said, drawing out the word appreciatively.

"She's good," Bodie said.

"At what?"

"Tsk, tsk, Raymond.   The job.   Comes from Special Branch."

"Oh, we'd best be careful, then."

"Tell you a secret—she's not wearing a bra."

Doyle widened his eyes, mouthed 'really' and they both turned to look at her again.

As they watched she knelt to tie her shoe, her blouse falling open at the neckline.

"Bet you'd like to get your hands on some of that," Bodie said under his breath.

"Nah," Doyle replied. He concentrated fiercely on the removal of the spent cartridge. "Nah," he repeated, "not me hands, mate, me mouth."

He sneaked a glance at Bodie, who was trying hard not to  laugh,  and not succeeding very well.     "Say," he whispered, "what d'y'think, you and me an' her..." He let the sentence trail off suggestively.

"Wicked," Bodie said.   He shifted so his body was between Doyle and the others, ran his hand down Doyle's back to his buttocks and squeezed.

Doyle wriggled; Bodie's hand felt quite pleasant. But he worried they were attracting attention, so he brought his heel down on Bodie's instep.  "Later," he said.    "My place."

Black eyebrows arched in mock-outrage.   "Are you aware of the rule, Doyle, that says no fraternising with your fellow operatives?" he said in a horrendous imitation of Cowley's accents. "It's in the small print."

"Nobody takes that seriously." "Cowley does.  He so straitlaced it's a wonder he can breathe."

"Oh, I don't know," Doyle said, "He's put up with you discreetly screwing the whole secretarial staff all these years, hasn't he?"

"Take it from me, mate. Anyway, that was a long time ago."

Doyle nodded sagely.   "Gettin' too old to keep up the pace, are we?" he said, and prepared to duck.

Bodie didn't react as Doyle expected, only smiling an odd smile. "Maybe so." His gaze went to something over Doyle's head.

When a quick glance over his shoulder revealed nothing but the sun shining through the trees, Doyle, too, became thoughtful. He squinted up at Bodie, still staring off into the distance.

Grey threads had crept through his temples when Doyle wasn't watching, and the laugh-lines around his eyes were visible even when his face was relaxed. No doubt he was showing similar signs of age.

He felt around his pocket for extra ammunition. "Bodie," he said, slamming the new cartridge home, "You ever wish I was a woman?"

"What?" Bodie's gaze returned to him, wide and unfocussed. It made him look far-away and dreamy, like a man who has just had a vision. "Nah.  Course not."

Then the blue eyes zeroed in on Doyle. "Why do you ask?"

Doyle shrugged and aimed a careful shot at the target.  "Thought you might." He pulled the trigger.

Bodie shook his head. "Wouldn't be the same, would it?" He turned to leave, then pivoted back, bent his head to Doyle's. "I'd prove it to you right now, only," he jerked his thumb in the direction of the others, "They might get the wrong idea." He shook his head. "People are always jumping to conclusions," he said sorrowfully.

"Minds in the gutter," Doyle agreed.

Bodie sighed. "You know, if I kissed you now, they'd probably think we were queer for each other."

Doyle broke out laughing. "Go on, get back to your class, teacher."

"See you later, eh?" He winked at Doyle and strolled on.

Doyle watched him go, assaulted by the tangle of contradictory feelings he should be used to, having felt them daily since this began.

 

The days sped by, impressionistic, blurry around the edges, filled with routine work he performed in a peaceful, automatic way. Even the light had an improbable quality, as if poured from a storybook summer of a childhood he had never had. By contrast the nights were tangible and fierce, razor sharp outlines of what really went on in his life.

Namely, having it off with his partner. Every chance they had.

He would have thought that novelty would soon wear off; but the possibilities seemed infinite. There were all the different ways to lie together on the bed; stretched out, heads towards the headboard; flung across the centre, his weight crushed by Bodie's, half-on the bed, half-on the floor, the floor itself with its rough carpet to be tried, the tables, the armchairs; the dozens of different positions to explore, first led by Bodie, then repeated by him, digging deeper and deeper into reservoir of sexual imagination and desire, so varied that each time was like learning him all over again, yet as intimate and familiar as his own body.

Bodie filled his thoughts by day and his arms by night. He drifted along, unworried, cushioned by the growing certainty that Bodie must really love him. In spite of his frosty exterior at work and his offhanded manner afterwards. No one else would notice any difference, but Doyle felt it all the same. It was woven into the things Bodie said, and the way he looked at Doyle and the way he touched him.

Doyle kept that certainty to himself, equally certain Bodie would never admit it, and warmed himself in the knowledge from a distance, like a fox sneaking up on a campfire.

Being the man he was, it was some time before it occurred to him to wonder whether he loved Bodie in return, and when it did occur to him, he dismissed the idea. He was attached to Bodie, naturally, and he wanted him, oh God, all the time, feeling the familiar sweet aching in his guts at the mere thought, but love him? No way.

Bodie was a soulless, cold-hearted son of a bitch, Doyle harboured no illusions about that, not after knowing the man for ten years, and what little tenderness he had was reserved for Doyle alone. While he was grateful, he was also offended, judging correctly that Bodie would do anything that suited him, anything at all.

How could you love someone like that?

No, he contented himself with contemplating the play of light and shadows on the flawless contours of his face, with watching the ever-changing eyes, now effervescent with curiousity or excitement, now glittering with malice, now darkened opaque with passion.

After a time, he came to think of Bodie as two people, just as his life was split into night and day.

But he never lost the sense that Bodie was watching him covertly, that if he turned his head he would see that restless, searching look he did not understand.

 

XVII.

 

DOYLE RUBBED HIS eyes, gritty with exhaustion, and stretched his arms over his head. Five hours in the computer room and he only had two thin printouts to show for it; these old files weren't much more promising. Ought to give up for the day, the letters were beginning to blur together. He went over to the small alcove that functioned as a makeshift file cabinet, traded the M's for the N's, sat down again, and switched on the desklamp. It wasn't that late, not yet dark outside he guessed, but this room was in a section of the building that had somehow escaped remodelling, probably because the files stored here were either too old or too sketchy to be useful. His gaze lingered on dark panelling, the swirls in the wood burnished deep walnut by the small lamp. He'd sweet-talked the clerk into letting him use the room after hours, when he got tired of carting files up and down the stairs to his desk. At least here he could spread out.

The street sounds outside had died away, just occasional footsteps hurrying by.

He applied himself to the fact sheet he'd been studying.

The door creaked. "Slogging away, I see." Bodie perched on the edge of the desk. "Here.  Coffee."

Doyle took the cup and sipped appreciatively at it. "Thanks, mate."

"So what are you up to, eh, Sherlock? You been cloistered in here for days."

"You know that bank robbery?"

Bodie made a gagging noise. "Dutiful Doyle, doggedly determined to dig deeper than the devil. There's nothing to this, why all the fuss?"

"Dunno." Doyle took a swig of tea. "Every so often, I like a clean and simple op— where I know we're the good guys."

"Ah."

Taking this as a tacit invitation, Doyle said, "I think Cowley has it by the wrong end. They're not using the vault at all."

Bodie shrugged, as if to say, ok, I'll play along. "What are they after?"

"It's something to do with that art collection—it is," he said to Bodie's sceptical smile.  "Harris' wife sold all his stuff and skipped the country. She got rid of that collection in a hurry, didn't put it up for auction or anything.  Dumped it."

"So?"

"I'm not sure. Ran across a case like this one before; somewhere in here," he gestured at the files in front of him. "She was a bit of high-maintenance, though. Expensive to keep a young wife like that, Harris was nearly fifty."

Bodie yawned. "Too dull for me, mate."

"Don't you care? Most of this information comes from your reports."

"Not much, no."

"Just following orders."

"Something like that." Bodie pushed himself off the desk and yawned again. He did look rather tired, brown jacket the worse for wear, faint hollows under his eyes, black stubble marking out his chin. "Why don't you give it a rest for a while; come on, I'll buy you a drink."

"Can't. Not much time left and I'm going to get the ones responsible for those killings if it's the last thing I do."

Assuming his most irritating fatherly air, Bodie said, "'S not good for you, this workin' nights. You need to relax. You know what they say. All work and no play—"

Doyle saw it coming. "Makes Jack a Doyle boy," he cut in, "Yes, yes, I know."

He did his best to copy Bodie's own smirking complacency when Bodie howled in agony—it wasn't often he was able to break him up—but the hideous contortions Bodie's face was going through were too much and he laughed so hard his stomach ached.

Bodie reached out and ruffled his hair. "Come on, angelfish, call it a night."

Doyle shook his head as much in negation as to make Bodie stop toying with his hair. He didn't like it at the best of times.

"Overly conscientious," Bodie told him, "Carryin' the weight of the world on your skinny shoulders. Me, I'm carefree and unfettered." He picked up a stack of papers and started leafing through it.

Doyle made a grab for them, missed. "Bodie. Would you stop distracting me."

"OK, OK, I know where I'm not wanted." He placed his hands flat on the desk, and leant forward, looking for all the world as if he were supporting himself with his palms. "Come on, you've been spending all your time nose-deep in paper, an' I think you ought to be spendin' it with me." He fluttered his eyelashes. "I'm much more fun."

"Jealous?" Doyle mocked.

"Yeah," Bodie said, wide-eyed.  "I'm jealous."

"Of course," Doyle said, though he was not as immune as he pretended to the wistful expression being directed his way. "Well, if you'd help instead of bein' a pest, maybe I'd get done faster."

With an exasperated sigh, Bodie pulled up a chair and started going through Doyle's notes with careful attention.

Doyle waited patiently for him to finish, tapping an idle rhythm on the desktop with his pencil. He was in truth grateful for the chance to hash the case over with his partner. Bodie had been gifted with a brain as relentless and shrewd as his own, and what he lacked in analytical skill he more than made up for in quick intuitive flashes and keen observations. When he chose to apply himself, that was. Sometimes Doyle asked him questions just to see his mind work.

He was not disappointed. Bodie set the papers down. "OK. What better place to hide a small shipment of valuable narcotics than inside a valuable statue? The weight would be negligible compared to the weight of the object, and it would get special treatment through customs; once inside the country a private sale is arranged "

"And presto, delivery complete. Yeah, I thought of that. Problem is, these other raids go back months and months."

Bodie rubbed his chin. He got to his feet and paced the length of the room. "Try this. There was a mix-up, at customs maybe, or a substitution. The piece with the goodies inside is whisked away. Our band of merry men has been looking for it ever since."

"Maybe." Doyle frowned. "Seems a bit farfetched. But it's about the only connection I see."

"If they're connected."

"If? Cowley thinks so."

"Well, I don't."

"He's usually right."

"True."

"There's got to be; look, Harris set up this travelling exhibit from his collection." He shook his head. "It's awful, let me tell you. And that exhibit has been at each of the banks." He snapped his fingers. "That's it! It's been staring me in the face all the time." Excited, he dug through another stack on the floor. "Look, all the police reports say the places were smashed up a bit, they put it down to wanton destructiveness; after killing off the whole staff, what's a few lousy museum pieces?

"Harris could have intercepted the shipment and been hoarding it all this time—"

"And his wife knew what he was up to, that's why she got rid of the collection so fast—"

"All we've got to do now is track the stuff down and impound it, and the display at the bank, then they'll cancel the raid," Bodie completed in bored voice. "Now can we go for a pint?"

Doyle smiled up at him, not really seeing him, still thinking furiously.  "Got to tell Cowley—ow!"

Bodie's fingers closed tightly around his wrist as if he planned to jerk Doyle to his feet, but he did nothing. "Ray—"

"Yeah?"

Bodie bent over and kissed him, just like that.

Doyle didn't mind, but he couldn't resist the chance to get some of his own back. He pushed Bodie away. "Someone might see," he said pointedly.

"Nah," Bodie said, and kissed him again, "'S late. Just you and me, sunshine. Like it should be."

"Who's takin' chances now?" Doyle said when his mouth was free again.

"Nothing to worry about," Bodie said, but he released Doyle anyway. "No one would ever suspect me of being bent." He beamed happily at Doyle, having solved yet another problem to his satisfaction.

"You mean they'd suspect me, do you? Thanks." Doyle slapped the file closed and began neatening the desk. "Think I'll go home and go to bed," he announced.

"That's more like it," Bodie said and held out his hand.

"To sleep," Doyle said with some asperity. "I'm knackered."

Bodie nodded, his eyes glinting in the lamplight. "I know exactly the thing for exhaustion." He came around behind Doyle and placed his hands on his neck, rubbing tight muscles.

Relenting, Doyle leant into the touch, hunched his shoulders this way and that. Hadn't realised how stiff he'd been until he started to relax. The kneading fingers worked their way over his shoulders, lightened into a caress and began a stealthy slide down his chest.

Doyle jabbed his elbow backwards.

"Ow—what'd you do that for?"

"Not here, Bodie, are you nuts?"

"Why not?" Bodie's sardonic voice murmured, "Might be fun."

"Anyone could walk in. Anyone.  Cowley even."

There was a slight thump as Bodie dropped to his knees. "Gone home," he said. Doyle's hair was lifted from his neck and a series of kisses replaced it while an impertinent hand sneaked under Doyle's shirt again.

"Let me make you come, Ray. Please." His breath sent shivers through Doyle's body.

Bodie abandoned the shirt and switched to his jeans, unzipped them as Doyle watched, bemused by the sight of Bodie's arms appearing from his sides as if they were his own. "No," he said abruptly, catching Bodie's hand.

"You want it," Bodie whispered, and hooked his free hand under the waistband of Doyle's pants, baring his erection to the light.

A door slammed somewhere and they both jumped. Bodie was at the door in three swift strides, hand unconsciously smoothing his hair. Though it was hardly necessary, he laid a finger over his lips, peered out through the frosted glass. "Caretaker," he said after a second.

Doyle let out his breath in a whooshing sigh. He fumbled hastily to close his jeans. A shadow fell across him.

"Hey—you scared?"

"Yeah, what do you think?"

"Me, too," Bodie allowed, and grabbed his arm and pulled him to his feet, dragging him off into the darkened alcove and squeezing in beside him. There was barely room for one, much less two, their bodies wedged together in the small space. No more was said. Bodie held his head in strong hands and kissed him, sweeping the inside of his mouth clean of any further protest. Doyle had never been in a situation like this before, the heat of the moment overriding any words he might have spoken. Then Bodie reached for him again, slid the zip of his trousers down slowly, watching his face the entire time.

Doyle closed his eyes when Bodie knelt to tug his jeans down, bit his lips to keep from crying out when Bodie's mouth pressed into his belly.

His head hit the wall with a thud as Bodie's lips touched the head of his cock, teasing there before slipping all the way down.

Oh, that was beautiful, Bodie sucking him, deep and strong and powerful, almost too hard.  His fingers tangled in Bodie's hair, urging him on. He muffled the groan rising from his belly, could not stop the little whimpers escaping him at each breath. He looked down at the sleek dark head, caught Bodie glancing up at him with desire-darkened eyes that nevertheless twinkled.

He was so close, achingly close—Bodie stopped, stood up, and turned him to the wall, arm around his waist, steadying him. His shirt was shoved up off his back, and Bodie's chest, shivery with sweat, pressed to him.

The rustle of clothing, the tremble of wet fingers probing him and he felt an urgent stab of pleasure mixed with fear, for he knew what was going to happen, shocked to find himself arching eagerly backwards into the quick thrust that penetrated him like a knife.

Bodie froze there, held them both still, and Doyle could feel himself softening and warming, setting off a subtle ache, then a slow rocking from side to side sent ripples of fire through his guts.

A tiny corner of his mind screamed in outrage at what he was permitting, and in terror that they would be found like this, but the touch of Bodie's lips on his neck silenced it Bodie drew back then and waited, as if for consent, his heartbeat thundering against Doyle's back, his palm stroking flat across the tight muscles of his stomach, creeping down until it brushed his cock.

Doyle braced his forearms against the wall, apparently signal enough for Bodie because his cock slid down into Doyle's body again, with an ease as if they had been doing this for years.

He was melting into it, drenched in pleasure, if not for the support of Bodie's body, his knees would give way. Gripped, impaled, surrounded by Bodie, he exploded into a climax that seemed to last forever.

And after forever, when he came to the reality of his face crushed against the polished wooden panel and Bodie slipped from him, he wriggled his jeans up, trying not to see the splatter of his come on the wall. He twisted round, back to Bodie.

Bodie kissed his forehead, cool and impersonal, and left him there.

Just like him, Doyle thought with only minor resentment, leavin' me to clean up the mess.

 

 

XVIII.

 

DOYLE OPENED THE door to the reception area, and stifled a groan when he recognised the man waiting there, hat in hand.  Lane.

"This way," he said. He let Lane pass in front of him, taking in the shabby tweed coat and brown trousers shiny with age. He'd been referred here by the local police after making a nuisance of himself at the bank. Silently, Doyle cursed Cowley for sticking him with the interview. Of course, he had nothing better to do, in Cowley's opinion, apart from trailing bread crumbs everywhere and distracting the secretaries.

"So what is this place?" Lane said as Doyle led him into a small waiting room used for visitors.

"Doyle. CI5."

"Yeah, I remember you, Doyle. Last month, at Westcombe, wasn't it?" Lane looked around, still holding his hat between his hands as delicately as a bear with a freshly-caught fish. "So this is CI5."

Doyle rolled his eyes. Private investigators. Bloody amateurs. "What can we do for you, Lane, I haven't got all day."

"Your lot ordered the Midland bank display impounded, right?"

"That's right."

"Why?"

"Sorry. Classified. Why do you want to know?"

"My client's hired me to keep an eye on it, that's all. Some valuable stuff in there, you know."

"Who is this client?"

"Sorry. Confidential." He smiled, showing a row of even tobacco-stained teeth. "I'll be frank with you, Mr. Doyle," he said, "I don't really trust my client. He told me his name was Adler, but I checked and that's an alias. Now that's not unusual in my line of work, but something's odd about the whole job. Collection's insured to the hilt, now it's been impounded. And I haven't seen my client for quite some time. So I was getting a little curious, you see."

"Quite natural," Doyle agreed, letting a blandly pleasant expression cover his interest. Cowley was going to love this.  The mysterious client had to've been Harris, had to have. And why else hire someone to watch the exhibit unless he had been afraid someone would find his cache before he'd got it out of there? Not to mention insuring it.

"I was wonderin' if he was setting up for an insurance fraud," Lane continued slowly, mopping his face on his sleeve. "You know, have the stuff destroyed or stolen and collect the money. In my line of work we're always looking for that sort of thing." He paused, watching Doyle as if to see how the weightiness of his words was sinking in. His eyes were slightly bloodshot.

Mentally Doyle ratcheted Lane down a notch. He knew the type, strain at a gnat and swallow a camel, self-righteous, always trying to pull the other guy down to his level.  "Yeah?" was all he said.

"But now I'm not so sure."

Another thoughtful look was directed at Doyle, who was doing his best to conceal his impatience. He wished someone would open the bloody vent in this room; he was suffocating.

"Well, I am sure it's quite safe with you, Mr. Doyle. That's all I wanted to know." Lane rose.

"Hold it," Doyle said. His hand snaked out and caught the smaller man's shoulder. Lane was hiding something, and he didn't like that. He considered getting the information out of him on principle, decided against it. Harris was dead, after all. But it wouldn't hurt to have this clown available for supporting evidence. "Leave your address with the secretary; we may need to question you further about your client. And stay in town." He gave Lane a shove in the direction of the hall.

"You can't detain me—I've done nothing wrong."

"Yes, we can," Doyle told him, "'S in our brief—material witness." He hustled Lane into the reception room, and smiled at him. "Keep in touch." He closed the door, chuckling to himself.

He headed straight for Cowley's office and reported the entire conversation.

"Well," Cowley said, when he was done, "That puts a new light on things. I've heard from the lab—"

There was knock on the door, Bodie entered without waiting to be called. This earned him a scathing glance from Cowley, which Bodie took no apparent notice of. He presented a small bound notebook, laying it on the desk with a flourish. "Warehouse inventory you requested, sir."

"I didn't intend you to go tearing over there and back like a madman.  When it was convenient, I said."

"Had some time on my hands," Bodie said. He stood smartly at attention, eyes straight ahead.

Cowley's gaze slid to Doyle.

Doyle shrugged. Bodie had his own methods of dealing with their boss that he had never understood.

Lips pursed, Cowley loosened his tie and leant back in his chair. "Och, sit you down, you may as well hear this, too."

"Thank you, sir."

Nice, Doyle thought, Bodie comes barging in on some flimsy pretext because he's nosy and gets invited to have a seat, but if he had done the same thing Cowley would let him stand there till hell froze over. He walked over as Bodie pulled up the only other chair in the room and stared pointedly at him.

Bodie sighed, equally pointed. But he stepped aside and offered the chair to Doyle, who graciously accepted. It was the least he could do.

Cowley's expression was souring by the second. "As I was saying before I was interrupted, the x-rays have turned up blank," he said. "But I think you're on to something, Doyle. The bank has a record of two private sales, one week before Harris was killed. A warrant's being issued right now, though I haven't much hope of finding anything at this date. More importantly, Customs show that one of Harris' companies has been importing replicas of Roman statuary for the past four years."

"There's nothing in any of the pieces we took in?" Doyle asked. "I would have sworn that exhibit was related " He frowned, thinking furiously.

Cowley got up and walked around his desk to sit on the edge. "No, I think we were meant to suspect the exhibit; there is another one making the rounds up north. The timing is right. And then there's Lane. Coming here to draw our attention to the fact that the collection's been heavily insured. Do you find anything on him?" this directed Doyle.

Doyle shook his head. "Nada, nothing."

"I don't like it," Bodie said. "Sounds too complicated."

"Indeed. Quite an elaborate cover-up staged for our benefit. While we've been wasting our time chasing a red herring, he would have had the opportunity to complete the transfer."

"If he hadn't died first," Bodie said under his breath.

 

Part of the burden laid on a CI5 operative was the responsibility of staying ever alert, even off-duty.  On their way home a few days later, sitting at a traffic light, Doyle let his gaze roam idly over the pedestrians waiting to cross. Ordinary people, unremarkable in working clothes and business suits. The light changed and the car sailed through the crossroads.

One of the faces tugged at his memory. "Pull over," he said.

"What for?" Bodie said, but he obeyed instantly.

Doyle was already halfway out of the car. "That woman back there, that was Harris' wife."

He left Bodie to the job of parking and took off after her. It was hard to see her in the crowd, and she'd dyed her hair to a dull blonde, difficult to distinguish in the growing twilight. A backward glance assured him that Bodie was following.

They trailed her through Soho, plunging into the warren of narrow streets and squares, getting further and further behind, until he saw her take a corner he knew led to a dead-end. With little regard for courtesy, he forced his way through the late-night shoppers, turning down a tiny side-street that was clear. He started to run. Got you now, he thought, the only outlet was an alley.

He rounded the corner and skidded on a piece of rotten cardboard, nearly fell, grabbing at the wall to steady himself, he looked round the alley—Empty. Bloody, bloody hell. She must have caught on to him and doubled back. Or else she'd slipped inside one of the featureless steel doors facing him; no way of telling. He pounded on each of the doors in turn. Silence greeted him.

Damn. He leant against the brick wall, catching his breath, and reholstered his gun, listening to the metallic echoes die away.

Never mind. Now they knew she was in this area they'd find her soon enough.

Where the hell was Bodie, he ought to be right behind him. He looked around the deserted alley. A slight wind rustled through some papers, lifted one and twirled it a few feet through the air before setting it gently down. The only other sound was his own breathing.

His mouth twisted into a grin; an insane desire to laugh bubbled up in his chest. Two could play at Bodie's game.  Besides, he owed him one.

He stuck his head around the corner, undoing his jeans one-handed, pulling his jacket closed to hide the action.  "Bodie!"

No answer.

Then Doyle spotted him, standing next to a callbox, the wind cavorting with his hair. "Psst, Bodie! Over here."

Bodie appeared not to hear.

Annoyed, Doyle raised his voice, stamped the concrete for emphasis. "Bodie!" He ducked back into the alley and waited.

Bodie came charging round the corner, gun at ready, and stopped short. Slowly he made a full circle, looked accusingly at Doyle. "What the—"

Doyle pounced on him, smothering his words with a kiss, and took Bodie's hand and guided it under his jacket.

Bodie's eyes widened in shock, then comprehension took hold and a lazy smile crept across his face. "You little devil," he began, but he didn't get to finish that sentence either because Doyle slammed him up against the wall, knocking the breath out of him.

He had Bodie's trousers open in a matter of seconds, and fell to his knees.

He chuckled deep in his throat when he heard Bodie's gasp of surprise as his lips closed around his cock. He kissed and licked until it stiffened and filled his mouth, and then set about sucking him hard and fast, using one hand to caress his balls through the fabric of his trousers, and the other to massage the shaft. With another gasp Bodie arched and came in his mouth.

Wiping his mouth, Doyle stood. He quirked his eyebrows at Bodie, immensely pleased with himself.

Bodie grabbed him and thrust his hand down the front of Doyle's jeans, closed around the painfully throbbing erection there, lifted it free of the tight fabric. The cool touch of those sure hands was all he needed and Doyle came in one hot spurt. From somewhere Bodie produced a handkerchief and cleaned him off as best he could. He looked as if he was about to say something, but Doyle laid a finger across his lips and winked.

In silence they walked back to the car. The whole thing had taken less than three minutes.

 

XIX.

 

THE CI5 WAREHOUSE rose bleakly above a nondescript huddle of wooden buildings, backed up to a seldom-used railroad. Normally cluttered with useless junk—Doyle had always wondered why they didn't get a smaller storage unit, be more economical surely—and smelling of dust and mildew, it had recently been swept clean to make room on the far wall for the stacks and stacks of boxes reaching all the way to the steel roof. He didn't envy the lab technicians or the warehouse crew; it was going to take forever to sort it all out.

He hoisted himself onto a stack separated out from the rest and cast a jaundiced eye at the neat rows opposite. Christ, he was tired. Bodie as well by the look of him, drowsing on his feet, head leaning against the wall, eyes slitted. He'd actually gone so far as to discard his jacket, and the grey T-shirt he was wearing was plastered to him like a second skin. Cowley'd assigned several agents, including them, to help cart the stuff in when it arrived that morning. It was the pinnacle of his career, Doyle thought blackly, hauling crates like a dockworker. And smelling like one, too, in this heat. They'd left Anson and Jax to finish up, gone to eat, and returned when Anson called to say Cowley was on his way.

Been hanging about ever since, waiting for the Cow to show. The other two agents had skipped out with a claim of impending starvation.

He heard the rumble of a motor outside, then tyres crunching gravel. "Oi," he said, prodding Bodie with his knee. "Wake up, Snow White, the hunter cometh."

"Murdering metaphors again," Bodie said without opening his eyes. "The Language blokes are going to put out a contract on you."

"That's in France," Doyle said.

"What is?"

"The Language Academy, twit. Academie Francaise."

"They'll be after you as well if you don't watch out." At the sound of footsteps behind them, Bodie squared his shoulders and turned. "Good afternoon, sir," he said, "Or is it good evening? Seem to have lost track of time."

"Must be all the kip," Doyle muttered. He didn't bother to rise.  He was too tired.

Cowley overlooked the commentary and went straight to business.  He handed over a sheaf of papers clipped together with a photograph.

"This may interest you, Doyle." The picture was a black-and-white shot of the man in last month's car accident.

"Give us a look," Bodie said, coming to stand at Doyle's side. "So he wasn't so innocent after all." Doyle pretended not to hear.

Cowley waited for them to study the file, then took it back and slipped it inside his briefcase. "A customs official, bribed to rubber-stamp the shipments. He got scared, was going to turn himself in, but they caught on to him. Fortunately for us, he left documentation in a safe-deposit, implicating Harris' company. The solicitors for the estate found it."

Doyle nodded. Every so often, things were easy. "Guess that clinches it." He gestured at the pile of boxes. "Hope you're not in any hurry to find the drugs."

"Oh, those are probably the only ones we need to search," Cowley said, inclining his head at the stack Doyle had appropriated as a seat

Doyle twisted and peered at the label. "Portrait heads of the Caesars?"

Cowley smiled benevolently. "Rather witty of him, don't you think?"

"Huh?" Doyle said.

"The Six Napoleons," Cowley said, "I thought surely you would have recognised that, Doyle, since the story was written by your namesake."

Deciding at random to be perverse and play dumb, Doyle shoved his elbow in Bodie's ribs to alert him. "Sir?" he said blankly.

"Och, damn your insolence, Sherlock Holmes, man, Arthur Conan Doyle."

"And Napoleon the Emperor oh, very clever," Bodie said. His brows drew together.

"What about the robbery?" Doyle demanded.

A frown flitted across Cowley's forehead. "Could be coincidence."

"Great," Doyle said, "I thought you didn't believe in coincidence."

Cowley shrugged. "It does happen. Harris' killing, for example. One of a string of common assaults. Bad luck—"

A shrill ringing interrupted him mid-sentence. One of the warehouse clerks brought a phone over, held it out to Cowley.

"Cowley."   He listened.   "When?   All right."   He hung up the phone slowly. "Well," he said. "The robbery at Westcombe went through. Vault cleaned out. Nothing else was touched."

"Another coincidence, of course," Doyle said.

"Doyle—" Cowley began.

"Sorry, sir. But you can't believe Harris had nothing to do with it."

"It doesn't fit," Cowley said.  "Harris is dead."

"Where's the problem," Bodie said, "I'm sure he wasn't directing things personally. Gang probably got their signals crossed."

"A go-between, you think?" Cowley asked.

Bodie shrugged.

"Start pulling Harris' associates," Doyle said, "We'll find the link."

"Not yet, not without evidence."

"You still don't believe Harris is the big fish after this raid? I mean look at all this," he gestured wildly about the warehouse. "He's some kind of megalomaniac."

"The Napoleon of Crime?" Bodie said in a sepulchral whisper.

Caught unprepared, Doyle broke into a fit of giggles, almost losing his precarious perch on the crates.

"All right, that's enough, you two," Cowley said. "As you appear in need of working off your temper you can stay and supervise the unpacking, Doyle. Bodie, you come with me." He picked up his briefcase and marched away.

Bodie waggled a reproving finger at Doyle. "Naughty Raymond," he said, "Now you've gone and upset him. It'll take me at least an hour to cheer him up."

"Tough," Doyle said, and made a face at Cowley's retreating back. "You better go, or it'll be your turn next." He grabbed a crowbar and brandished it.

Bodie left.

Doyle set to prying off the lid of the top box. He pulled out a bust and smashed it.

Unfortunately it was empty.

 

A few days and 1500 boxes later, Doyle yanked the inner door to the local pub open. The loud thunk as the door slammed was masked by the noise of the after-dinner crowd.

He spotted Bodie in a corner, polishing off a pint. He pushed past a group of suit-and-tie boys, stalked up to the table and slapped down a sheet of paper listing Harris' aliases. "We've been had."

Bodie picked it up and read it. "So what?" he asked, twitching the paper onto the table.

"Couple of the lads picked up Linda Harris—that's all they could get out of her, she's strung out.   No wonder, with that lunatic for a husband.

Doyle snatched up the paper and stuffed it in his pocket. "Don't feel bad, Cowley had to explain it to me as well. Harris has been havin' us on. Must be laughin' in his grave. He meant us to think the stuff was hidden in those castings, it was a fraud from start to finish.

"Lessee, Dupin, Poe, right?" Bodie made an elaborate pretence of thinking. "OK, The Purloined Letter', is it?

"Didn't know you went in for the classics."

"I don't," Bodie said. "Read it in school."

"Where's the most obvious place to find drugs?"

"A drug company, right."

"On the nose, sunshine. We're checking 'em out now."

"He who laughs last," Bodie said. "And the robberies?"

"Who knows, maybe a fuckin' coincidence, like Cowley said, that's all. It's a laugh a minute."

Bodie nodded solemnly.

"It's a game, all another game, and we fell right into it."

"You fell into it," Bodie said

"What do you mean, me?"

"I never believed it, told you, didn't I?"

Doyle made a violent chopping gesture with his hand. "Find me a chair, will you, I'm goin' to get a drink," he said. "What'll you have?" Bodie told him and he worked his way to the counter—damn, this place was crowded for a Wednesday—ordered another pint of lager for Bodie and two glasses of wine for himself—so he wouldn't have to go back any time soon—juggled them back to the table.

"How much?" Bodie said.

Doyle shook his head.

"You buyin'? I don't believe it. Must ring the Guinness Book of Records."

"Sod off," Doyle snapped, "or I'll dump it in your lap." He set the glasses down and pulled up the chair Bodie had acquired, from the next table judging by the frosty looks directed their way.

"To coincidence," Bodie said, and raised his glass in a toast.

"Yeah," Doyle said. He downed his first drink in one gulp, slid the empty wineglass inside the wider one Bodie had left there earlier. They sat in silence after that, Bodie staring into his beer, hands encircling the glass like he expected it to try and run off.

Was it his imagination, or was Bodie doing the brooding number again? Well, so be it, Doyle wasn't in the mood for that crap tonight. He picked up his second glass and sipped at it. "All right," he said, "Why're you so quiet? Something wrong?"

Bodie didn't glance up.  "No. Don't feel like talkin'."

There was a surprise. Doyle shrugged and swallowed the remainder of the wine. Fine with him if they didn't talk. Hadn't much to say, anyway.

Bodie stood abruptly, disappeared into the crowd, returned with another round and sprawled on the bench seat again.

Feeling the effects of the first two glasses, Doyle took it easy with the third; he still had to drive home. Wouldn't do for CI5's finest to be arrested for driving over the limit. Cowley would not be amused.

Oh, yeah, CI5's finest, that was him, all right.

Christ, what a mess he'd made of that robbery business, wait it wasn't all his fault, was it? Cowley had a hand in it, and Bodie, and several other agents. Good job they were protected under Official Secrets, the papers would love it. A monumental fuck-up for all of CI5.

CI5. What a racket. He leant forward with his elbows on the table, propping his head up and running his fingers through his hair. Should've gone on to art school full-time, where the only thing he could fuck up was a bit of canvas.

But his innate sense of justice asserted itself. He had to stop blaming all his problems on the job. He'd wanted CI5, badly, broke his neck to apply when it was formed, nearly killed himself to pass the tests. Yeah, but he hadn't known how it would be, had he? Well, he answered himself, if it was so bad why not resign and get it over with?

His eyes focussed on his companion.

Nah, what good would resigning do? CI5 was fucked up, he was fucked up, the whole bloody world was fucked up.

It was awfully sad, when you thought about it.

Mellowed with wine, he rested his hand on his chin and gazed limpidly at Bodie. He was looking kind of sad himself with his head bent and eyes downcast, thick dark lashes caressing pale cheekbones. Doyle liked the shape of his face from this angle, cheek modelled into a gentle s curve that ended at his chin. The dim lighting hid the harsh lines left by his habitual sneer, smoothed the cynical twist of his mouth.

"What're you makin' fish eyes at me for?" the vision said.

"C'n look at you any way I want," Doyle said huffily, "Got a right to by now, don't I?"

A married couple approached the party at the next table and the husband was frantically looking around for a place to sit.

Doyle stood up. "Here, have mine," he said with a gracious wave of his hand. "'S no trouble," he said when the man demurred, "Shift over, mate," he told Bodie, and crowded in beside him. beaming happily at the man.

"Since when did you learn manners," Bodie whispered, obviously not pleased to have Doyle pressed right up against him.

"Been watchin' you," Doyle said, unperturbed. He put a hand under the table, on Bodie's knee, squeezed, ran his fingers up the hard muscles of his thigh to the place where it joined his hips, and left them there, imagining the feel of soft inner thigh under his fingertips. Unconsciously he sighed.

It was wonderful to be able to sit close like this, and arouse no suspicions. No one to know or care, the deep wooden table ledge saw to that.  He hiccoughed.

Bodie's hand touched his, and he fully expected to receive an angry shove, or at best a pinch, but the hand gently covered his own and his heart skipped a beat. Bodie was a right bastard, callous and amoral, for all that he could be terribly sweet when he chose. Christ, he was mawkish tonight. Next thing you knew, he'd be thinking he was in love with him.

But he was, wasn't he?

The thought stood alone in the corner of his mind.

Through a momentary parting of the crowd, he caught the bartender staring oddly at them.

Feigning a greater drunkenness than he felt, he pulled his hand away and shook his head. He slung his arm around Bodie's neck, with the other pointing to a girl across the room. "What d'y'think of her, now?" he asked, ostensibly of Bodie, but loud enough so others could overhear. Hard to leer properly when your heart wasn't in it.

"Pretty," Bodie said. And she was at that, Doyle noted, curly blond hair and china-blue eyes, tip-tilted nose. Well-made, too, from what he could see of her. If he squinted he could make out her nipples.

"Bit like you," Bodie added.

Doyle snickered. "Pack it in," he said. "Would you fuck her?

Bodie made a prissy mouth. "Jesus, you're coarse. Crude, even, come to think of it."

"Well, would you?"

"I might.  If I felt like it."

"Thought you always felt like it." He unwrapped his arm from Bodie's shoulder and picked up his glass. He sneaked his other hand under the table again, aimed unerringly for Bodie's crotch.

Ignorant of this manoeuvring, Bodie had lifted his glass to drink the last of his beer. He nearly choked on it. He spluttered and coughed in a manner Doyle found quite gratifying.

Even more gratifying was the result of his unorthodox fondling, straining the fabric of Bodie's trousers under his palm. "Bet you feel like it now," he said.

"Will you pack that in?" Bodie snapped, but his thighs parted, permitting Doyle's searching hand free rein. "What's got into you?"

"'S what I want to get into that's the trouble," Doyle retorted.

"Ah, light dawns. A threesome, is it?"

"Yeah."

"You really want to?"

"Oh, yeah," Doyle said, "Like to see you havin' it away with a girl, bet you look great." He felt himself stirring at the image. Actually he wondered why they had never done it before, there had been lots of double dates and willing birds. He removed his hand and laced it primly with the other on the tabletop, and wiggled suggestively against Bodie's leg.

After a glance from side to side, Bodie obliged. Doyle clamped his jaw shut to keep from groaning when Bodie touched him and his cock leapt to life.

The idly rubbing hand was sending throbs of pleasure through his body, distracting him so he missed Bodie's next words.

"What was that?"

Bodie took his hand away. "I said, s'pose she'll come across?"

"Pair of handsome fellows like us? She'd be crazy not to."

"Mmm," was all Bodie said, but he was warming to the idea, Doyle could tell, he was getting that glint in his eye. "So who's goin' to chat her up?"

"Silly question, Mr. Suave. You are," Doyle said.

"We both are," Bodie said firmly. "Get off on the right foot.    'Less you want to chicken out?"

"No way." Doyle slid past the table and stood up. Though his erection had subsided somewhat, he shoved his hands in his pockets to hide it anyway. "I'm ready."

Bodie unfolded himself from his seat and they started towards her.

However, to their mutual disappointment, someone had beaten them to it.

"Find another?" Doyle said hopefully.

Bodie yawned. "Nah. 'S closin' time; let's call it a night."

"Oh, come on," Doyle persevered. "It's not like you to give up so easily."

"Listen, you've a yen for female flesh, be my guest," Bodie said. "I'm going home to sleep." He shouldered his way through the people blocking the exit.

"'Ang on a minute—" Doyle started after him, but it was too late, Bodie had already vanished outside.

Sobered as though someone had dumped a bucket of water over him, Doyle stood oblivious to the bustle of warmth and cheer all around, until the scrambling of last minute drinkers brought him back to his surroundings. He rattled his keys in his pocket and looked around. Light glowed over the mahogany furnishings, picking out golden highlights, illuminating the face of the bartender. He smiled politely at the man. Lights up—time to go.

Where to, was the question. He knew dozens of establishments that catered to late-night revellers, but the prospect held little attraction; the idea of going on home appealed not at all.

He allowed himself to be shuffled along with the mass of people moving towards the exit, and so found himself on the street with no more idea of what to do than he had inside.

As the crowd streamed out and the pub darkened, he began to get irritated. What the hell was the matter with Bodie, walking off and leaving him like that? Should've known, he was changeable as the weather. But Doyle would have gone along with whatever he wanted; didn't he always? No matter how outlandish or chancy. He spotted a tin can lying on the pavement and gave it a vicious kick. But let him suggest something, and no way.

He smashed the can into a metal disc with his heel and headed for his car. He didn't have to decide where he was going. He knew. Gullible, Bodie had called him, and he was right.

The windows were dark at Bodie's flat when he pulled up. He let himself in, slipped off his shoes and walked on sock feet to the bedroom.

True to his word, Bodie was in bed, prostrated on his stomach, face buried in the pillow. The sheet rose and fell as he breathed.

Silently Doyle stripped off his clothes and crawled under the cover. He lay there a moment, waiting for his heart to stop pounding, then inched over and laid a tentative hand on the other man's arm.  "Bodie?"

"Yeah."

"You awake?"

"Am now."

 

 

_a_

_rhythm_

_-like_

_water_

_disturbed,_

_like_

_music_

_in_

_the_

_dark_

"Oh, yeah. Sorry." He smoothed Bodie's hair into place and ran light fingers down his spine.

Bodie stretched, bunching muscles and humping his back, then relaxed.

Doyle folded the sheet back to his waist and began massaging him in earnest.

Bodie grunted his approval.

Doyle put his hands on his shoulders, rubbed at the tension there, fingers working like the claws of a purring cat. "You pissed off about that bird?"

"No." He raised his head to look at the clock on the nightstand. "Give up, eh?"

"Wasn't the same, by myself."

Bodie turned over, throwing Doyle off. He placed his hands behind his head. There was a gleam of white as he smiled. "Never could get on without me."

"No."

After a moment Doyle crept close again. "Think I must be in love with you or something."

Silence greeted this bombshell.

Doyle bent and touched his lips to Bodie's. They were warm, but unresponsive. He covered the heavy body with his own and sought the asylum of Bodie's neck. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

"What in hell for?"

"Shit, I don't know."

"You talk too bloody much, Doyle." Bodie got out of the bed and went to the window. He parted the curtains, letting the blue streetlight wash over the room, bathing his body in light and shadow.

Sunk in misery, Doyle watched him with dull eyes. He wondered how he could have ever thought Bodie was made of stone. Stone-hearted, yes.

But his body was a study in motion, muscles rippling across the span of his shoulders, living curves surging along his spine, slinking around his buttocks, setting up a rhythm which flowed like water disturbed, like music in the dark.

A shape so infused with life and vigour the surface of his skin barely contained it. Only Bodie's will held it in check, keeping the cold passion that animated him forever out of Doyle's reach.

The curtains lifted and fluttered past Bodie's hips. Doyle felt cool night air on his face. The sound of drunken voices singing out of tune penetrated his abstraction. "What d'you open the window for, you moron?"

"It's hot," Bodie said. "Could use the breeze."

Doyle stared, flabbergasted. Caution had always been second nature to Bodie.   More like paranoia, most of the time.

He got up and dragged the wooden sash back down. "You know better than that. You want to get yourself killed?"

"Who would care?"

"I would care."

Bodie took Doyle's face in his hands, traced his eyebrows. "Would you?"

But he didn't let Doyle answer. "You ought to see yourself now in the night light." He held Doyle's face like a chalice, fingers splayed wide across his cheekbones, delicately touching, handling him like spun crystal as if afraid he would break. "I don't understand you, I'll never understand you." Doyle felt Bodie's gaze intently probing him to the dark corners of his mind, until he imagined he felt the presence of the other man within, as disturbing as it was curiously sensual.

"I can hardly believe you're real," Bodie whispered.

Doyle slipped his arms round Bodie's waist and hugged him close.

Bodie returned the embrace silently for the longest time, then he said, "I don't want anyone but you."

That was the best he was ever going to get, Doyle thought. "Let's fuck," he said. "Can't seem to do anything else right."

"Yeah," Bodie agreed. He ran his fingers through Doyle's hair, sending prickles of pleasure down his spine.

"Give us a kiss, then." He tilted his head back and parted his lips.

Bodie's mouth was warm still, and alive now, drinking from him, kissing his cheekbones as his hands slid to Doyle's buttocks, spreading them slightly.

"More," Doyle said, grinding his hips against Bodie's.

A gusty laugh exploded in his ear.

"What's funny?

"I am," Bodie said. "Hoist by me own petard."

Doyle locked one hand over his wrist in the small of Bodie's back and lifted his feet from the ground, set him down again with a thud. "Bloody great oaf."

"Told you," Bodie said with a superiour smile. "Just a delicate little flower, you are."

"I'll show you delicate," and he delivered a sharp pinch to Bodie's backside.

Bodie yelped. "Vicious little flower," he corrected himself.

"Not so much of the little," Doyle told him, soothing the place he pinched.  "Or I won't let you ravish me."

"Couldn't stop me if you wanted to." Bodie kissed him and curled his fingers around his cock. "Damn, you're already hard," he said, as if he were surprised or something.

"Had noticed," Doyle said, letting his eyes fall shut and reaching for Bodie's semi-tumescence.

"Like to know how you get it up faster than a 17 year-old kid on his first trip to a whorehouse."

"Talent." Doyle tugged at him. "Come on. Bed's more comfortable."

"Careful, you'll do me an injury," Bodie drawled, "And then where will you be?"

"No more frustrated than I am now," Doyle snapped, "So will you shut up and come to bed?"

"Gracious as ever," Bodie said, but he made amiably enough for the bed, Doyle on his heels.

Doyle stretched out on his back, put out his arms in invitation.

Bodie slid up next to him, and kissed him softly. "Got a gorgeous mouth, Ray," he said and sat up, half-lifted Doyle from the bed, cradled his shoulders with one arm, while his other hand stroked Doyle's thigh. "Wanton." He kissed him again. "Yeah, wanton, touching me up back there in the bar," he went on, "And letting me do it to you, you looked so sexy, eyelids drooping, thought you were going to lose it right there, mate," his hand touched Doyle's erection briefly—too briefly—gave his testicles a squeeze. A finger grazed the opening to his body.

Doyle groaned, he couldn't help it, his head fell back across Bodie's arm when the finger pressed inside him.

"Yeah, you want it bad," Bodie whispered, "Don't you, got you hooked now," and Bodie's hair brushed his chest, then a wet tongue was softly licking at his nipples and he was writhing and moaning uncontrollably.

Withdrawing his finger, Bodie gathered him closer, and took his cock again, saying, "You're beautiful when you're turned on like this," he made his hand into a fist for Doyle to thrust into, "That's it, fuck my hand," steadying him as he arched up, higher and higher.

"God, Bodie, you're gonna make me come—" He pushed him away, rolled to his back and spread his thighs, offered his body for Bodie's pleasure.

And his own, oh, yes, his own.

He wiggled with anticipation while lubricant was massaged into him, could not hold still as Bodie held his hips, thrusting back to feel Bodie pressing slowly, filling him, cried out in disappointment when Bodie pulled out completely.

He felt his hips being shifted around.

"How about that?

"Again," Doyle ordered.

The next thrust sent molten fire through veins too narrow to hold it, melted his spinal cord. He'd hovered on the brink of climax so long it wouldn't take much more. Then Bodie thrust into him again, and again, and he heard his voice disembodied above the bed, pleading with him to continue. "That's great, Bodie, don't stop, feels like you're touching my cock from the inside," and when Bodie's hand closed around his shaft from the outside, the voice became unintelligible.

He wasn't alone, Bodie's deeper baritone meshed with his, a sweet subterranean purr idolising him and cutting him off from everything but Bodie.

Bodie's lips touched his, murmuring against his mouth. "I love to fuck you, angelheart, makes it seem like there's nothing and no one in the world but you and me."

"Mm," was the best Doyle could manage at this point, drunk on sensation. He wanted to come, that was all he could think about, every fibre in his body yearning towards that end.

If only Bodie would keep up that lovely liquid pace and be quiet.

"Say you're mine," Bodie whispered.

Doyle's pleasure-fogged brain caught up with the demand. He shook his head.

"Say it," Bodie insisted and kissed him until he was gasping for breath. He brought his thrusts to a complete halt, and his fingers bore into Doyle's arms. "Say it, damn you—"

"No, not unless you do," Doyle said.

"Don't you know yet?" Bodie whispered.

He held Bodie's eyes, heavy-lidded pools of sparkling blue, not daring to hope, watched them cloud over. Then Bodie ducked his head and began his thrusting again, swift and violent.

Doyle slipped his hand between their bodies and stroked himself, staring at the ceiling, listening to Bodie panting in his ear. There was a muffled groan in his shoulder, and Bodie's body went rigid, and Doyle was filled with a warm soothing flood which did nothing to relieve the craving in his heart.

 

 

 

XX.

 

DOYLE STUDIED Harris' widow from across the square oak table with professional disinterest, the drab black dress, the splotchy cheeks and dark roots showing through the dye-job. A week in hospital had seen her through the worst of withdrawal symptoms, but she was still prone to emotional outbursts. She'd been crying quietly for the past few minutes, and he patiently waited it out.

Now he stood up and walked around, squeezed her shoulder. "Come on, you're doing fine." His voice echoed back to him off the freshly white-washed walls.

'Doin' fine, Bodie—'

None of the sympathy he felt for her showed through his matter-of-fact demeanour as he gave her a handkerchief. "Tell me the rest of it."

She glanced piteously at the small audience of three recruits with red-rimmed eyes.

Ignoring the appalled looks they exchanged at his callousness in pushing her on, he leant over and switched on the tape-recorder. Tolman, at least, was struggling to hide his disapproval. Where was Cowley gettin' them from these days? This interrogation was tame compared to some of the ones he'd been in on. Tolman had come from the Marines, he remembered, the other two were from local CID's, Manchester and Edinburgh...not like the Met. Well, they'd get used to it; he had.

He'd let them conduct the first round of questioning, but her story was so garbled he'd had to take over. God, what a maze of cover-ups and counter cover-ups. Harris' plotting was so convoluted it was worthy of Cowley at his most Byzantine. To divert suspicion, he had set up the whole operation with the castings, leaving false clues everywhere, even bribed that poor customs bloke to make it seem more realistic. Doyle hoped the old man would appreciate it.

"OK. Let me see if I have this straight: you used your position at the lab to get the coke imported as sulpha powder—" nice touch, that, masquerading as an antibiotic, "—converted a set portion into crack to be sold abroad, packaged the rest and turned it over to him for delivery, keeping a few samples for yourself, no doubt."

"That's right," she said softly.

"Where did it go after that? How did he get it out of the country?"

"I don't know."

About a year ago, she said, he had begun to worry someone was on to him; that was when he planned a further kind of diversion. And, no, no, she didn't know the purpose behind all this manoeuvring or where the profits from the drug sales went.

"This diversion—it wouldn't have happened to be robbing his own banks, would it?"

"I can't believe he's dead." She started crying again.

"Yeah, that's rough," Doyle said. Perhaps it was time to switch tactics. It wouldn't be the first time he had exploited grief or loneliness to get the information he wanted. "Dragging you through all this, and then leaving you to take the rap for it." He paused. "And what was he up to the night he was killed?"

She glanced up at him, and he caught the cold gleam of appraisal, before she bowed her head. "I don't know," she said. "He said he was going to meet someone, some man he didn't know."

"Not good enough," Doyle snapped.

Again that appraising look. "You think he would rob his own bank?"

"You know," Doyle said to Tolman, "About eight people have been murdered in these raids so far, not counting Harris." Mentally, he crossed his fingers, hoping Tolman would have sense to pick up the ball.

Tolman obliged him. "But if he was responsible, surely there isn't any more danger..."

Doyle nodded. "Yeah. But Cowley, y'know, he likes to have things tidy. He'll want all the gunmen, and all of Harris' accomplices nailed before he'll let us close the case." He smiled at Mrs. Harris. "Now smuggling's one thing, judge might go easy on you, bein' a woman and all, but murder—" He tsked. "Never mind. I hear the accommodations for female prisoners aren't too bad—especially when they know you'll be staying."

The whites of her eyes glinted. "I haven't killed anyone."

"But your husband did, didn't he? Eight people, innocent people, ripped up by machine guns, on his orders. And you knew about it. Didn't you."

"I didn't!"

Doyle growled in disgust and turned away with a wave of his hand. "Come on," he said, "Then why did you run?"

"I—I was afraid...I don't know anything about your bank robberies!"

Doyle ignored her, examined his fingernails. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Tolman hesitate, then sit down across the table from her. "You'd better tell us what you do know, then," he said gently.

Good lad, Doyle thought, you may make it.

He heard her swallow. "All right. A shipment had gone missing—"

"How long ago?" Doyle cut in.

"Two months, I think. Anyway, Paul arranged with this person to get it back. That's all."

"You knew the man?" Tolman asked.

"No. No.  I never saw him."

"But your husband told you about him? Can you describe him?"

"No. He said the man was nothing but a bandit, a mercenary. As long as he was paid off everything would be fine. Oh, I knew it was too dangerous—"

"Why? Why was it dangerous?" Doyle asked without turning round. "Was it a double-cross?"

"Oh, no. He wouldn't. He'd know better. They'd find out..."

"They?"

"His partners."

Doyle spun round. "Who were these partners? You know them?"

"No."

"If it was a double-cross, they'll be on you soon enough."

Her eyes widened. "But I don't even know them, they're just voices on the telephone—"

Tolman reached across the table and patted her hand. "We'll look after you, don't worry." He glanced at Doyle. "How many—uh—voices?"

"Three, four. I'm not sure."

Doyle frowned, thinking furiously. Had Harris staged the robberies to cover the drug transfer? Of course, if the man had been carrying a large amount of cash the night he was mugged, no wonder he'd tried to fight and got himself killed for his trouble. Doyle shook his head. "You're leaving something out."

"I'm not," she repeated, stubborn. "He was so busy I never saw him. He always had another show, gallery opening, charity dinner, or whatnot. I—I wasn't allowed to go with him, he said I'd be an embarrassment."

Would be an embarrassment to Cowley if he knew two of his operatives were going at it hot and heavy. Doyle shook his head. Now where had that thought come from?

He sighed. "OK, let's go through it again."

"Please, I've told you everything," she said through sniffles. "Everything, I promise."

'I promise'. Bodie's voice sounded so real Doyle had to stop himself looking over his shoulder.

He patted the tape recorder. "Got to get it all down for posterity, love."

"Take over, Tolman." He crooked his finger at one of the other recruits. "You, Chalmers, help him. And try to ask the questions in the right order this time." He directed a saw-toothed smile at the others. "I'm sure one of you will be able to remind him if he forgets."

With that he left them to it, and went to get himself a drink. Coffee, no, the machines were delivering particularly horrible stuff today. Maybe he should break down and get a coke. At least you could count on soft drinks to taste the same every time.

He stood in front of the restroom vending machines, fiddling with the change in his pocket and trying to make up his mind, when a pair of hands covered his eyes. "Bodie."

There was a disappointed grunt and the hands fell away. "You guessed."

Doyle turned. "Of course I guessed; how many overgrown six-year-olds do we have round 'ere?"

Bodie pursed his lips thoughtfully, pretended to count. "Don't have that many fingers."

"Try your toes," Doyle said. He stared at his own. A bit of sock poked through a new hole in his trainers.

"So what's happening?" Bodie asked.

Doyle jerked his thumb towards the corridor. "Lettin' the new kids out of their playpen for a while."

"I'm off to the armoury; give me a lift? Had to leave my car at the obs. job."

Making a rapid calculation of the time involved, Doyle glanced over his shoulder. Cowley was in a meeting, wouldn't be back for a good stretch. "Yeah. OK," he said.

"Thought you were going to get your own car back the other day," Bodie said, eyeing the Fiesta with distaste.

"Still not ready, is it? Tomorrow for definite. Look, mate, you don't like it, you can walk, you know."

"Thanks," Bodie said, but he got in the car.

They had driven the short distance in companionable silence and were backing into a parking-space before Doyle thought to ask why they were here.

Bodie pulled out a revolver and handed it to Doyle.

"Thought it was new," Doyle said, turning it over.

"Doesn't shoot straight."

"If it's defective why didn't you take it back to whatever hole-in-the-wall arms dealer you got it from?"

"That's a finely crafted piece of machinery, that is, needs special handling," Bodie said, indignant, and snatched it back. "Better 'n that thing you carry."

"Paranoid." Doyle didn't bother to defend CI5-issued weaponry. Since the day seven years ago when Doyle's slide lock had jammed, leaving Doyle a sitting target for a sniper, Bodie had superstitiously avoided them, and once Bodie got an idea in his head, it was a waste of time to try and talk him out of it.

"Been meanin' to have it checked for a while now," Bodie added.

"Good job you haven't needed it much," Doyle said.

"How do you know I haven't needed it?" Bodie tapped his cheekbone with the muzzle and lifted a suggestive eyebrow. "Maybe I'm the leader of the East End hold-up gang." He grinned.

Doyle grinned back. 'There is no East End hold-up gang."

"How do you know?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"But there might be one, mightn't there. Can't be sure about anything these days."

"Go on. You been stuck doin' paperwork, same as me.

"True," Bodie said gloomily. He slipped the weapon in his pocket and got out of the car. "S'pose there are compensations."

"Yeah," Doyle said. He grimaced. "Gettin' too old to be shot at once a week."

"Speak for yourself, mate. Got a few good years in me left. As long as I can pass the physical."

"And then what?"

Bodie shrugged. "Decide when it happens."

Doyle checked to make sure his door was locked as a brown car trundled past. "Wait a minute—"

"What?"

"Dunno. Thought I recognised that car. We haven't picked up a tail, have we?"

tcNow who's paranoid?"

They went inside, where Doyle had a moment's doubt he wasn't daydreaming back in the Interrogation Centre; the long white corridors looked exactly the same. He pasted a smile on his face while the security guards verified their ID, escorted them through the heavily barred doors, and unlocked the main doors to the armoury.

Sanders was on duty. A quiet, self-contained young woman, whose peaceful expression and interminable grey smocks reminded Doyle of a mourning-dove, of all things. She'd been in charge of the armoury for several years, but Doyle had never found out her first name. "What can I do for you boys?"

"That's gentlemen, to you," Doyle said. "We were moppin' up thugs off the streets when you were still in the nursery."

Bodie handed the weapon over. "Trajectory's off," he said. "Think there's something interfering with the firing pin."

"Let's have a look," Sanders said, and opened the inner door.  "This way."

"Nah, we'll wait here," Bodie told her, "Wouldn't want to make you nervous watching you. Your hands might shake."

Unruffled, Sanders smoothed her smock and shut the door.

Doyle leant on the recently-installed counter top. Crates of guns and ammo cluttered the work space behind the counter, the walls were lined with metal shelving stacked with more of the same, wrapped in brown paper. Virtually any lethal item you cared to choose was available with the proper requisition; without one if Cowley so decreed. "You remember the Organisation Wars?"

Bodie hopped over the counter and pried open a crate of Browning automatics. He selected one and opened the main chamber and looked inside. "Yeah. That was fun."

"Fun?" But it had been, at that, all your faculties stretched to the limit, exhilarating, oh, definitely, but harrowing. Life on the edge. He picked up a .22 rifle lying on the counter top; brand-new, by the look of it.

He watched Bodie testing the trigger-action on the Browning, all too aware of the sturdy body under his clothes, the long dark sweep of eyelash as he checked the sight Bodie, who had been trained first as a soldier, then as a paratrooper, excelled in precisely the combination of weapons expertise, tactical experience, endurance and sheer guts required to pull off a major assault operation; was why Cowley had put them together in the first place. Though his talents came in handy on the smaller jobs, too, Doyle admitted to himself, chuckling.

"Still thinking about the good old days, are we?" Bodie asked. He discarded the handgun in favour of an assault rifle.

"Yeah, I am." Doyle hefted the rifle, squinted down the sight.  "You miss all that?"

"All what?"

"Bein' Cowley's bully-boys, the rough stuff."

A crease appeared on Bodie's forehead and his eyes narrowed as though the question stirred up unpleasant memories.    "What, you mean playin' storm trooper,

swoopin' in on terrorists, dismantling bombs, that sort of thing?" He dropped to his knees and swung the gun in an arc, making rat-a-tat noises.

Doyle grabbed the barrel with his free hand. "Yeah, that sort of thing."

"No." Bodie got to his feet and set the gun down. "Not any more," he said, putting his hands in his pockets. "Did for a bit there. Got pretty bored with all this surveillance work, hanging about with your ear to the ground." The frown touched his eyes again briefly.

"And?"

"I don't know, mate. You know what they say, idle hands and all that." He smirked at Doyle. "Got other things to keep me hands occupied these days, haven't I?"

Doyle laid the rifle back on the counter. He gave Bodie a tired smile. "Yeah. I suppose you do at that."

The door creaked, and Bodie hurriedly flipped himself back to Doyle's side of the counter before Sanders saw him.

"You were right," she said. "There was a chip inside the mouth of the barrel that needed filing down."

Bodie held out his hand for the gun, but she didn't give it to him.

"Sorry to be a bother, but I can't find a record of this weapon. It's not standard issue. Where did you get it?"

Bodie glanced up at her from under his lashes, and put on his best boyish grin. "It belonged to a friend of mine." He winked at Doyle. "Sentimental value, you know."

To Doyle's amusement, Sanders' expression didn't change a bit. "Well, you'll have to bring it back and have it registered."

With a snort of disgust, Bodie said, "All right. Do it now and get it over with."

She disappeared into the back room.

Doyle glanced pointedly at his watch. "You don't mind waiting, Ray, do you?" he said to himself, answering "Me? No, I'm just along for the ride, right?"

"Sorry, mate," Bodie said, rubbing the bridge of his nose, "you know how it is."

Doyle did know how it was with most of CI5 support services, write it, sign it, stamp it, in triplicate. Regardless, Bodie usually wasn't so keen to comply with regulations. "What'sa matter, you gone straight?"

"Nah.  Just don't want to come back if I can help it."

Sanders returned with the revolver and a clipboard. "Sign here." She smiled impersonally. "Let me know if you have any more trouble."

Bodie looked the weapon over, then shoved it in his waistband. "Thanks."

They signed themselves out with much protesting and sarky comments about bureaucrats' heaven, thoroughly antagonising the security guards, and strolled back to the car. The return trip was taken up with a discussion of Sanders' romantic prospects; none in Bodie's opinion, though Doyle held out in favour of the taller security guard.  "Was givin' her the eye, I saw it."

"Listen, if his eyes popped out and rolled on the floor, she'd probably mistake them for gun-bearings," Bodie said as he turned into the CI5 carpark.   "What now?   You up for a workout?"  He feinted a punch at Doyle's jaw.

Doyle looked at his watch again. "Can't. I'm late for Cowley as it is."

"Such a stickler," Bodie said, though it was unclear if he was referring to Cowley or Doyle.

Doyle got out of the car. "Tomorrow, eh?" he said through the window. "Do me a favour before you go; go check on my toddlers. Left 'em with the Harris bird, get one of 'em to take her back to hospital."

Bodie rolled his eyes, but he set the handbrake and got out of the car. "Where are they?"

"C-Wing."

"The things I do to keep you off the streets," Bodie complained, following Doyle into the building. "Good thing my shoulders are broad." They were approaching the junction of the main corridors where they had to split up.

Bodie had already started off his direction when Doyle plucked at his sleeve. "Bodie."

"Yeah?"

"Come round to my place later?"

Bodie didn't answer. Instead he stepped close, glanced furtively up and down the empty corridor, and kissed Doyle on the cheek.

He turned and walked unhurriedly away.

Doyle checked the impulse to run after him.

 

Cowley had come and gone, leaving word that he would return after six, so Doyle used the time to review the case. The presence of the Harris exhibit at each of the bank robberies still preyed on him. Every instinct screamed the two were connected and he wasn't prepared to let it go this time, no matter what Cowley said.

He ran the interrogation over and over his mind, making a few notes. He needed to find out who Harris was meeting to make the payoff.

In the underworld, nothing is ever truly secret. There is always someone who has heard something, seen something, always accomplices both before and after the fact; and it was on this principle that Doyle left HQ to track down his favourite informers.

The robberies were no secret all right, everyone he talked to had plenty of gossip. An outsider, went the whispers, a gentleman's gang, rumours of money handed out freely in the slum areas, but no real information. After a few hours of frustration, he ran down a toothless one-legged ex-con known as Harmonica, for his annoying habit of constantly playing the thing.

It took twenty quid and two choruses of 'Blow the Man Down' to get a location, in an old shipyard and factory area past Wapping.

He sped his way through the tangle of narrow thoroughfares and laneways until he spotted the building, a derelict foundry with boarded up windows and a gabled roof.

After circling the block and finding it deserted except for a few cars here and there, he parked some distance away, grabbed a torch and walked back. Breaking the lock was the work of a minute. Inside it was dark with a few streaks of light leaking through holes in the ceiling. The whole place smelt of mildew. He switched on the torch. Ahead, a huge steam furnace loomed over him, pipes twisting and curling Giger-like around each other. Some abandoned casting machines stood along the near wall, next to a row of shelves cluttered with machine parts and sand moulds. Otherwise the building was empty.

He let out a sigh of disappointment, not sure what or who he'd expected to find. He swung the torch around, the beam catching the glitter of steel shavings like diamonds hidden in the dust.

His footsteps cushioned in thick, musty silence as he crossed the floor to the far wall. The torchlight bounced back at him, and he realised he was seeing a cubicle created by metal sheeting, what probably used to be the foreman's office. The door hung off the hinges, and as soon as he stepped through, his faith in his informant revived in flash. Rubbish, food wrappers and several Wimpy's paper cups were piled in the corner. Shell casings littered a desk pushed up against the wall, arrowing towards the ultimate prize: a brown paper wrapped brick-shape.

Yes!  It had to be the missing cocaine shipment.

Trying to contain his excitement, he carefully examined the rest of the little office, and, slid partway under the desk, he found a Midland bank deposit bag.

He held the bag between thumb and forefinger, thinking furiously. Obviously, when Harris didn't make the meet, the robbers abandoned the place, along with the cocaine—wise of them under the circumstances.  At least now he had solid evidence that the two were in cahoots.

Among the debris he found plastic wrapping—perfect for preserving any fingerprints on his treasures, and he gathered the items up and started back.

From this vantage, the empty building with its soaring roof seemed a great cavernous cathedral, a monument to the Industrial Revolution, presided over by the monstrous altar of the furnace.

A car engine rumbled outside, vibrating through the silence. He dashed to the door and looked out, caught a glimpse of dark Citroen sedately making the corner. Nothing.

Still, it was best to be getting back, if he missed Cowley again, he'd be for it.

He stowed everything in the boot of the Fiesta and raced back to HQ.

Hoping to catch one of the lab technicians, he ran up the steps, meeting Susan on her way out. He nodded and would have gone on, but she spoke and he forgot his intention completely.

"Ray, there's some bad news. Your witness, Mrs. Harris? She's dead."

Doyle stopped, confusion and shock blanking his mind. "No—no way—how?"

"Suicide, I'm afraid." Susan patted him sympathetically on the shoulder, shaking her head. Her blonde pageboy swayed smoothly around her face.

"Oh my God."

"There's a report on your desk. I'm so sorry," she said, and went on.

Doyle remained standing on the steps, unable to think. All he could remember was Mrs. Harris' face when he threatened her with prison.

While he was reading over the duty nurse's summary, Cowley came in. He nodded when he heard the news as if he had expected it. "An ill wind, indeed," was his sole comment, but he accompanied Doyle to the hospital where they stayed late, interviewing the doctor and nurses, and going over and over the sequence of events with the agents on duty. When he got home Bodie was sprawled on the sofa with a newspaper draped over him, snoring gently.

Doyle aimed a kick at the foot of the sofa. "Wake up," he said.

Bodie sat up in a single startled movement, sending the paper flying. "Wha—" He blinked, twice. "Oh. Might have known it was you."

"Harris' wife offed herself."

"How?" Bodie asked, covering a yawn.

"The new lads that drove her back to hospital took her to the floor and left her there, instead of escorting her to her room and waiting for a nurse." Doyle cringed inwardly at the memory of Cowley's stare when he had told him that bit. "She got into one of the supply cupboards, found a needle and injected herself with a syringe full of air. One of the nurses caught her and tried to back the plunger off, but it was too late."

Bodie nodded. "You had her in for questioning; you find out what you needed to know?"

"Yeah," Doyle said bitterly. He started pacing the narrow strip of space between the coffee table and the sofa.

"What's the problem, then?"

"What's the problem? What do you mean, what's the problem? Me, I'm the problem. I can't seem to do anything right any more.  I didn't even see it coming."

"So you're not a mind-reader."

Doyle came to halt in front of him and looked down. "She was my responsibility and I blew it. It's my fault, I should have seen to her myself, not let a couple of raw recruits handle it." He paused and ran his fingers through his hair. "Couldn't have expected them to know better."

"If it's anybody's fault, it's mine," said Bodie, "I briefed 'em. But," he yawned again and stretched, "probably would have happened sooner or later. Takes a lot of determination to give yourself an embolism," shaking his head, "The things people will do to get high." He rose to his feet and held out his hand. "Come on, get some sleep. You look terrible."

Doyle pushed his hand away. "In a while, maybe." He took off his jacket and went to hang it up, then remembered he was in his own flat and threw it at the sofa.

Bodie's hand shot out and caught it neatly. He hung the jacket on the corner of the hifi.

"Back to your old self, I see," Bodie said sardonically. "I'm not sure I like it."

"Who asked you?"

"I see I shall have to stock up on candles for your shrine. Shame you have to die before they canonise you." His expression brightened. "Perhaps the Pope will make an exception in your case, but you'll have to convert—"

Doyle slammed his fist into the wall. The glass in the windows rattled. "Knock it off. It's not funny, Bodie, do you hear me, it's not the least bit funny."

"Come on, I thought you'd got over mooning about this kind of thing years ago."

"Got over caring? You make it sound like a disease. Oh, yeah, 'poor old Ray,  'e's 'avin' one of his spells, his conscience is acting up again. Gets like that sometimes; humour him, will you, 'e'll get over it."' He waved his arms in disgust as if to rid himself of the entire subject.

"I'm disappointed in you, Ray."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You don't give a damn about that woman—it's yourself you're worried about."

"Is that what you think? Well, you want to know what I think? I think you use me to fob off what little remnants of morals you have. As long as you think I'm wallowin' in guilt, or whatever you call it, you don't have to face up to the consequences of anything we do. Well, I resign from the position as your pet martyr, got it?"

Bodie glared at him, nostrils flared as if encountering an unwholesome odor. "You want to think you're on the side of the angels, but you don't want to pay the price."

"Why am I talking to you, none of this matters to you anyway."

"No, not much, but I'm not going to stand here and pretend it does."

"You don't care, what's new," Doyle snapped, "Does nothing ever get to you?"

"Course," Bodie said, "Everything does, you know, sooner or later." He smiled a little, wistful, but Doyle wasn't having any.

"Couldn't tell by me."

"What do you expect? You expect me to moan and groan and gnash my teeth? It doesn't help. Nothing else to do with pain but suffer it. It goes away after awhile."

Doyle let his head droop against the wall. Bodie was right; he was stupid for caring about a woman whose life was wrecked anyway, stupid for feeling guilty over a simple oversight anyone might have made, but mainly he was stupid for nourishing the futile hope that Bodie would ever understand him.

He heard the crinkling of newspaper being folded, felt the vibrations of Bodie's tread behind him. He spun, but Bodie had gone past and was standing in the bedroom doorway. "I'm sleepy," Bodie announced, "an' I don't fancy driving back to my place this time of night, so if you'll excuse me..."

He switched off the light and went through the door, leaving Doyle alone in the dark.

 

 

**August**

  

XXI.

 

I'M BORED," BODIE ANNOUNCED, for the third time that morning, "all this driving about and talking to lowlifes is gettin' on my nerves."

Doyle was long regretting his impulse to take his own car, newly out of the shop, instead of letting Bodie do the driving. "You just keep your eyes skinned for that old con. He's only got one leg, should be easy enough even for you. I want those raiders, and with Harris dead, he's my best shot."

"Still making it all a touch personal, aren't we, Raymond?" Bodie said dryly, but his gaze swept the slowly passing pavements in unceasing pattern. He wound the window down. "Your car smells terrible. What did they do, fumigate?"

With effort, Doyle kept silent.

"I'll tell you something for nothing," Bodie went on.

"Yeah?"

"The more times you run over a dead cat, the flatter it gets."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Automatically Doyle glanced in the mirror, and noted a dark brown Citroen.

"It means, Doyle, that we're wasting our time."

"Maybe. But seven people have died so far—'ang about. I think we have a tail."

"Really?"

"See for yourself." He pulled up next the kerb and waited for the car to pass, then made a U-turn. "I've seen that car before."

Bodie glanced behind. "Yeah, there he is."

Doyle took an abrupt right without signalling and drove on. A few seconds later the Citroen appeared again in the driving mirror. "I don't like that, do you? And I've an enquirin' mind. OK?" At Bodie's nod, he slammed on the brakes.

The Escort slewed in a ninety degree arc and stopped, effectively blocking their pursuer. Bodie sprang from the car and was on the man at the wheel in a second, jerking him out of the car. Halfway out his own door, Doyle had a glimpse of the man's face, and a flash of rage propelled him to Bodie's side.  "Lane!   What the hell do you think you're doing?

"You know this guy?"

"Yeah, I know 'im.  Harris' hired snoop."

Bodie released Lane with a shake. The man gave a tug to the shabby beige raincoat he was wearing and stood eyeing Bodie and Doyle in turn through narrowed eyes. "You know, if you ask me, I'd say he's a little more involved than that," Bodie said.

"Got to be. Why else is he followin' me? You're in trouble now, mate," the last addressed to Lane.

"No, you are.  I want to see Mr. Cowley."

"Oh, I'm sure he'll want to see you, too," Bodie said. "Right, let's go."

They stowed Lane in a general interview room and went to hunt up Cowley.

"Lane's been tailing me a few days at least, I'm sure of it," Doyle told him.

"Tailing you? That's a damn waste of time." Cowley pulled his glasses from his inside pocket and put them on. "Did you get his file?"

Doyle nodded.

"Well, let's see what he has to say for himself, shall we?" Cowley said and strode on down the corridor. Doyle and Bodie scrambled to catch him up.

Lane was waiting quietly, with his raincoat slung over his arm.  He turned round as they came in.

"Good day, Mr. Lane. I understand you asked to speak with me," Cowley said in his plummiest of tones. He gestured for Doyle to come to his side, Bodie to stay back and observe. A standard formation.

"Mr. Cowley?" Lane held out his hand, but Cowley ignored it. Instead he picked up the dossier from the table in the middle of the small room, and perched himself on the edge.

"Have a seat," Cowley said. He began paging through the file.

Lane seated himself again at the table, hands folded in front of him. He looked harmless, rather like an old brown circus bear, Doyle thought. Even old brown bears had claws though.

Cowley cleared his throat. "It says here you used to work for Derby Insurance Company, as a fraud investigator, am I correct?"

"That's right."

"And you left, what, ten years ago? May I ask why?"

"Let's say, personality conflict. I went out on my own after that. Same line of work, really. But I don't have to worry about my superiours dismissing cases to make the firm look good."

Cowley adjusted his glasses and made a note in the file. "And that's how you came to be working for this man," he said, and flipped a photo onto the table.

Lane glanced down at the photo. "That's him all right. He hired me to look into a robbery of his bank."

"You said you were watching the exhibit," Doyle said.

With a shrug, Lane acknowledged as much. "That was part of it."

Bodie and Doyle exchanged glances, then Cowley asked, "Did he say why he didn't leave it to the police?"

"He said he wanted to get to the bottom of it himself. Maybe he didn't trust the police. I told you before, he was an odd one."

"Were you aware he was involved in a drug-smuggling venture?"

Lane's expression registered surprise. "No, but that would explain quite a bit."

"You suspected him of something, then?"

"It occurred to me," Lane said warily.

Cowley leant forward. "What I'd like to know is what you were doing following Doyle here."

"I'd prefer to speak to you in private, Mr. Cowley." Lane lowered his voice. "It's rather a delicate matter."

"Anything you have to say to me you can say in front of my men."

Lane coughed. "That's, uh, what I want to speak to you about."

A sliver of dread pierced Doyle's awareness. Lane could easily have noted his comings and goings at Bodie's flat.

Cowley folded his arms and stared at Lane as if he detected an unpleasant odor.

"Very well." Lane sat back and grasped his lapels. "I came here today because I wanted to help you out. I thought you might like to know about the corruption in your organisation."

"Corruption?" said Cowley, his tone ominously soft.

"I'm afraid so," Lane said. He paused for effect, clearly enjoying the spotlight. "I saw your man Doyle in Westcombe, and the bank manager told me he had no authorisation to be there. And a few days ago I saw him go to an old building by the docks and come out with several deposit bags stamped 'Midland Bank'. And they looked full."

Even without turning to look at him, Doyle could feel Bodie's outrage fueling his own. "It was evidence," he snarled at Lane.

"Evidence? Then your lab should have a record, am I right?"

Cowley shot Doyle a scorching look. "We don't release that sort of information," he said.

"Oh, how easy for you. Well, I have documentation that Doyle is involved."

"Oh?" Cowley said.

"My client gave me some files for safekeeping."

"Gave them to you or you nicked them?" Doyle cut in.

"How much did he pay you, Doyle, to cover up his scam?"

"That's quite enough," Cowley said. "Mr. Lane, if Harris is dead, why are you still pursuing this? Who are you working for now?"

"I got interested, and he'd paid me in advance. Besides, I don't like cover-ups."

Cowley took his glasses off and chewed thoughtfully on the earpiece.  "Very commendable."

"And convenient," Bodie said.

Cowley acted as if he didn't hear. "You do realise Harris is connected with some very serious crimes? That you could be implicated?"

"Are you trying to scare me off, Mr. Cowley? Because it won't work." He sat up straighter, adopting an air of martyred defiance. "Whatever you're trying to hide here, I'll get to the bottom of it."

"Rest assured we will investigate your allegations."

"Of course."

"Mr. Lane, you have my word. You'll be hearing from us." He pressed the intercom. "Betty, have Wilson show Mr. Lane out."

Lane shuffled out, not without a smug backward glance at Doyle.

As soon as he was gone, Cowley rounded on Doyle. "This is brilliant, just brilliant," he snapped.

"You don't believe I've anything to do with that," Doyle said, still indignant.

"No? What's the meaning of this, then," and Cowley brandished a yellow copy of a motor pool report in Doyle's face. "A bank bag and half a kilo of cocaine in the boot. Are you daft, man?"

Bloody, bloody hell. Doyle looked up at the ceiling a moment.  "I, uh, forgot to turn it in, sir."

"Forgot? What the devil do you think you're doing?"

Doyle felt an desperate itch between his shoulder blades, but knew better than to move. He tried a quick peep at Bodie who was staring straight ahead.

Cowley slapped the paper. "And how did you come by half of kilo of cocaine, that is, if you can remember that much."

"Yeah, I got a tip about Harris," Doyle said. He swallowed before going on to explain what he had found.

"So you didn't report your whereabouts, you went on your own, with no witnesses," Cowley said. "Which makes everything on this list worthless as evidence, I might add. No wonder our friend is suspicious of you. And if Lane pursues it, if there's an inquiry, I'm supposed to tell them you forgot you had half a kilo of cocaine?"

"I made a mistake. Sir."

"I don't pay you to make mistakes. This is the last time I'm warning you, 4/5. Keep your nose clean or you'll be suspended pending discharge, is that clear?"

Doyle opened his mouth to object, but Bodie caught his eye and shook his head.

"Clear, sir."

Cowley took another look at the carbon then stuffed it in his pocket. "This couldn't have come at a worse time. It may mean re-vetting of everyone by Special Branch."

In shock, Doyle stared at his chief, not daring to look at Bodie. Re-vetting? They'd never survive it. "Why?"

"Our brief comes up for review this year, Doyle, or had you forgot that along with everything else? Any whisper of wrong-doing and we'll be fighting for our lives again." Repocketing his glasses, Cowley ran his fingers through his hair and shook his head. "Och, leave that to me. Right, both of you. Was he telling the truth about not knowing about Harris' sideline?"

With an effort, Doyle yanked his attention back to the facts at hand. "I'd say so. He's too self-righteous to've been in on any of it."

"A regular one-man morality campaign," Bodie added.

"Aye, I agree," Cowley said to Bodie as if Doyle wasn't there. "That lets Lane out as the go-between, though he may yet know more than he's told us."

"Oh, I don't know," Bodie said. "He could have set up a meet without knowing what it was about."

"Perhaps. You'd best go round this afternoon and see what else you can find out from him, Bodie. Check his so-called documentation."

"Sir."

Doyle had stopped listening. "Wait a minute," he said, "The exhibit was a dead-end, and if Lane isn't involved, then the robbers weren't working with Harris at all. Jesus. Another robbery could come off any time now." Two pairs of blue eyes mirrored his shock. "The undercover man is still there—and we're not prepared—"

When the phone chose that moment to break the silence, Doyle did not wait to find out who it was.  He was halfway down the stairs before Bodie caught him up. By unspoken agreement they headed for Bodie's car. They were both panting as Bodie practically hurled the Capri onto the street.

Doyle got his breath back. The bank wasn't far from Whitehall, but traffic snarled with pedestrians on lunch break and the usual gaggle of tourists through the area. They came to a halt at the end of a long line of cars. He glanced at Bodie's intent face, taut with concentration.

"Hurry," was all he said.

"I'm doin' my best," Bodie snapped, and wrenched the car down a side street.

As Bodie slammed on the brakes in front of the bank, three men emerged with a burst of gunfire. Doyle ducked behind the car door, then poked his head around and squeezed off a round. The men split up in different directions. He stood and looked round all clear—damn, where had that guy got to? He couldn't tell where Bodie was, but he heard shots behind him. At a guess, he was enjoying this, Bodie, in his element.

He stood in the street, panting a blur of movement caught his attention. "Get down!" Bodie's shout from across the way. Doyle hit the pavement, cursing his stupidity, heard a soft mump and hissing noise overhead. Slowly he lifted his head. Bodie had come out from his cover and didn't see the man behind him, already raising his arm.

Doyle aimed his pistol without thinking. One chance. He squeezed the trigger and the man dropped.

Bodie ran up and ducked down the far side of the car. "Are you trying to get me killed? Watch yourself, for chrissakes. Next time I might not be there to rescue you."

"Watch yourself," Doyle grumbled. Bodie had no business stepping out of his cover like that anyway.

He turned his attention to the third man, and fuckin 'ell, he'd grabbed one of the passers-by and was using her as a shield.

Thank god she had sense not to scream or struggle. He crept out from behind the door, holding his gun trained on the pair of them. He caught a glimpse of Bodie's cropped dark head the other side.

Together they waited.

The man reached a nondescript brown car, looked like a Ford, but it was too decrepit for Doyle to tell. He backed up to the driver's side and opened the door, then pushed the woman to the ground and leapt into the car.

Bodie lit after him, bullets flying, splintering his windscreen, but it was Doyle's shot that shredded a rear tyre. The car shrieked to a stop.

The man jumped clear and rolled his weapon up so it was pointing directly at Bodie's chest.

Doyle skidded to his knees, yelling "Look out!" Without so much as pausing to aim, he shot the man through the head.

He got up and rushed to his side, but Bodie was already there, checking, a formality because his skull was cracked where it hit the pavement and the bullet hole bulged pinkish-grey.

Bodie's hand came away covered in blood. Making a face, he wiped his hand on his trousers, then pulled his jacket down to cover the crimson stain on the tan fabric.

The reek of scorched rubber and gunpowder was all around, burning Doyle's nostrils, mercifully masking the odor of death. Sirens screeching ruptured the air; Doyle glanced up as a police car pulled up next to them. Already a crowd was blocking the street as people shoved and jostled each other to get a better look at the dead man. He nodded at Bodie, who turned and trotted off towards the bank, then he holstered his gun and pulled his ID from his pocket and went to greet the two shocked young bobbies getting out of the car in slow motion.

More cars showed up behind the first; bringing the sounds of slamming doors and the garbled cacophony of radios.

He grabbed the nearest policeman and dispatched him to help the woman taken temporarily hostage, then ordered the area cordoned off.

While the police began the tedious task of clearing the street, Doyle fought his way through to the front of the crowd, gaze restlessly seeking, locating Bodie at last. He stood off to the side, a solitary shape silhouetted by the sun.

Doyle made a visor of his hands, but the sun shone too brightly for him to make out his expression.

At last the figure moved, and the dark head swivelled towards him. Doyle felt the familiar stare go through him, then ever so calmly, Bodie looked away.

In the meantime, an ambulance had arrived, and a police detective in plainclothes waylaid Doyle, demanding explanations. Doyle wasted several minutes giving an account of the previous quarter-hour before he convinced the man it was in his best interests to cooperate with CI5, not the other way around. Times like these he blessed the small print.

He finally made it to the bank entrance, where the ambulance attendants were arguing hotly with the forensics team as to who should go in first.

Bodie leant against the wall, faintly contemptuous of such undignified wrangling.  His arms were folded, gun pointing casually down.  One of the robbers lay at his feet, still alive by the look of him, arms stretched above his head, a glint of metal just out of reach.  Bodie nudged it with his toe.  "Look, mate," he said to the nearest medic, "That's a nine millimetre machine pistol, don't think there'll be much left."

"I'm going in to have a look first," Doyle said, ending the debate by waving his ID.  A fellow agent had been on-duty in there, he wasn't sure who, and he was going to find him before Cowley showed up.

He gestured to the police photographer to follow him in, and opened the doors.

The stench blew at him like the heat from a blast furnace.  The sickly sweet aroma of blood, mixed with vomit and the smell of human bodies indecently ripped open.  Like the one and only autopsy he had watched. He pinched his nostrils shut.

The bank lobby was new, done in the style of an ancient Greek temple, white pillars reflected in glossy marbled floors, silent as a ruin.

"Don't touch anything," the other man said.

Doyle turned on him. "I've been doin' this fuckin' job since you were in short trousers," he said savagely, "And I don't need you to tell me proper procedure—"

His voice switched off as cleanly as if someone had unplugged him when he caught sight of Turner flung across a freestanding desk, chest perforated like a stamp. The r/t lay a few feet away, still emitting static.

He swallowed, hard, quelling his gag reflex.  As though looking through a magnifying glass he could see every detail of the shredded furrows of flesh and bone left by the bullets' path, minute tatters of skin adhering to the edge of the wounds, the blood splatters on the leaves of a nearby plant—his stomach revolted.

Covering his mouth, he dashed out the side door and to the kerb where he fell to the ground and his stomach emptied itself into the gutter.

Thank God everyone else was out front, no one to see him lose control this way, then another convulsion wiped away all thought.

When he was sure the last spasm passed, he lifted his head and spat, glanced around and saw he wasn't entirely alone; the photographer was right beside him, retching miserably.

At least he had the excuse of being young, but Doyle hadn't lost it at a crime scene since he was a beat cop. Marvellous for CI5's image, he was.

He rose on shaky legs and gave the guy what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "Let's try it again," he said.

An American-style water fountain presided at the far end of the lobby like an altar. Doyle made sure he rinsed his mouth, then did the same himself. Better prepared this time, he was able to complete the walk-through with the camera clicking away beside him, even suggesting some extra angles to show the actual relationships among the corpses and the room. When they were done, he called in the other experts. They trooped in laden with paraphernalia; plastic bags, test tubes, tweezers, fingerprint kits, slides, and began the meticulous process of collecting evidence.

He was quietly watching the lab technicians taking blood samples, his thoughts a blur, when he heard a clanging noise and whirled. A woman was creeping out from behind the counter. She froze when she saw his gun, rather like a deer seeing the hunter the second before it bolts. "Don't shoot."

"How'd you get in here?"

"I work here, I'm a typist..." Her eyes darted around the scene in dawning horror. "My God, what's happened?"

He put the gun away and went to help her up.

She looked a little like Ann, dark red hair and clear pearl-grey eyes, finely carved features: Ann perfected and clarified into aristocratic beauty.

"Robbery," he said. "More to the point, how did you escape?"

"I was in the supply room. I heard screaming and gunfire, so—" her voice faltered, "So I hid in one of the cupboards in the back."

She didn't cry, but one look at her bone-white face made him wish she would. Not knowing what else to do, he slipped his arm around her shoulders, offering mute comfort, little enough under the circumstances. "'S all right," he told her, "You were lucky." And so are we, he thought, to have at least one witness.

Street sounds filtered in, overridden by Cowley's fluent Scottish tones, then Cowley himself appeared. He walked slowly, stepping over a broken chair.

He surveyed the scene dispassionately, only a slight crease between his brows evincing his revulsion. His gaze swept each of the bodies in turn, pausing slightly at Turner, and finally met Doyle's, studying him before moving to the woman at his side. "Who's that?" she said.

"My boss." Unconsciously his arm tightened around her. "He'll probably want to ask you a few questions, if you're up to it."

Half-turning, Cowley rapped out a series of orders over his shoulder.

The medics trooped in carrying stretchers. With swift efficiency they began laying the bodies out.

Doyle let his arm drop away from her shoulders as Cowley approached them.

"I'll get your report, later, 4/5, first things first—" he glanced significantly at Doyle's companion.

"Employee," Doyle said. "Hid out round the back."

"Ah," was Cowley's only reply. He turned to her, allowing his features to express genuine distress and concern.

"I'm sorry to trouble you, Miss..."

"Kennet."

"Miss Kennet. We'll need you to come down and make a statement at some point."

"I understand," she said.

"Would it be possible for you to identify your co-workers for us now?"

She gave a quick nod.

Cowley took her arm, gently, and led her to the first stretcher.

Doyle watched him fold the blanket back, watched the girl's indrawn gasp. Could have waited, he thought, heartless old bastard. But then that's what CI5 made you, eventually. As if to underline that thought, Bodie popped through the doorway. Spotting Doyle, he came over, inordinately pleased with himself about something, eyes widening in appreciation as he followed Doyle's gaze to the young woman. "Would you look at that!"

"Down, boy," Doyle said, nausea stirring again at the lustful stare on Bodie's face. Didn't sit too well in the midst of this enamel house. He told him so, in a few barbed words.

Bodie listened, eyes narrowed and a cynical curl to his mouth, obviously gearing up for a counter-attack, but his reply was cut short by a crisp command from Cowley to escort the woman out of there. He returned moments later with a slip of paper he handed to Cowley. "Address," he said, "constable's taking her home." He winked at Doyle, who made a conspicuous show of addressing himself to Cowley.

"What's the score?" he asked.

Cowley straightened the cuff of his suit jacket. "Five dead. We were perhaps more fortunate than we deserved," he said. "Three staff, one customer and young Turner—" His voice trailed off and his eyes rested on Doyle, unseeing. After a minute, they focussed on him and Doyle realised he had been treated not to a display of heartlessness, but of a discipline he had never achieved. "And two of the three robbers dead as well, you said, 4/5?"

"Correction," Bodie put in. "Three of the three,"

Cowley's eyes shifted to Bodie, questioning.

"He went for his gun so—" Bodie shrugged.

"Aye." Cowley gave him a measuring glance, neither praising nor blaming. He rubbed his chin. "Very well. We'll have a run-down on the weapons, but I don't expect any surprises. There's nothing more to be done here; you two are free to go."

Doyle was eyeing Bodie suspiciously; he knew damn good and well Bodie had kicked that gun clear. As soon as Cowley was out of range he said, "Give over, what happened?"

"My finger got tired."

"You meant to kill him."

"Too bloody right."

"What's the matter, wasn't one enough for you?"

"Why do you care? He tried to kill you."

"I don't know, another attack of morals or something. For chrissakes, Bodie, you could have clipped him one, y'know, instead."

"Look, he went for the gun," Bodie said, low, although Cowley couldn't possibly overhear, "You know how it is. He'd get sent down and in a few years be out again. Now he's gone for good."

"Yeah," Doyle said. "He's gone for good," listening to his own voice echo off the marble columns.

He didn't like it.

Never mind the ethics, it went against every regulation. Less than a year ago, Bodie wouldn't have dared to so blithely breach the training hammered into them by Cowley, no matter what his impulses. Cowley held his men poised on the knife-edge of justifiable violence and if that iron grip ever snapped— Perhaps, as others had done before him, Bodie had crossed the line.

Doyle liked that idea even less.

Automatically, his mind reviewed the events of the past few months, Bodie's unpredictable and inexplicable moods, the obsessive intensity with which Bodie had latched on to him, and deep inside his belly the fear grew that it was true.   How long did you think about it?'  'Five minutes'

He glanced at Bodie, chatting idly with the police detective.

Couldn't be. Hell, he himself wasn't exactly the soul of stability, no one in CI5 was, were they? Upset by his own failure, he was blowing a single incident out of proportion.   His partner had always been dangerous and unpredictable, didn't mean he'd gone off the deep end.

As if he sensed Doyle's scrutiny, Bodie looked up and smiled and the world reverted to normal.

Doyle breathed a sigh of relief, then the smell hit him again. Normal. Christ, what a joke. It was always the same, the physical details of death. He never got used to it.

Behind him, the next-to-last stretcher was being carried out, leaving only Turner. He walked over and crouched down, sliding the red sheet back, remembering the last time he had seen him. His face looked perhaps half of his thirty-two years. "It's not fair," he whispered.

He glanced helplessly about for Bodie.

Bodie was on his way, crossing the lobby in a few strides.

He stood there, looking down, then reached his hand inside Turner's jacket, and removed a crinkled foil bag. He crumbled it into a ball. "Never liked nuts," he said irrelevantly.

"It's not fair," Doyle repeated.

"Don't," Bodie said. "There's no justice in this world, Ray no justice, only life. And life is all we have."

"Yeah. Life. Who needs it?"

"Come on, I'm taking you home." Bodie pulled him to his feet and dragged him outside.

"Leggo, damn it—" Doyle jerked his arm free. The sun blazing down made his head ache and he was sick to his stomach and shaking internally with rage.

But he slid obediently in the car when Bodie opened the door.

Bodie closed the car door and went round the other side and got in. He drove in silence for awhile, then said, "It's not your fault."

"Didn't say it was." Doyle long ago abandoned the notion that he held any sway over destiny. They might all be dead anyway, with or without his intervention. But that did not absolve him. Had he not been careless in his thinking, hasty in his conclusions, uncritical of Cowley's judgement, the possibility existed that no one would have died today.

And the loss of that possibility was his fault. Distracted by the goings on with Bodie, he had let his responsibilities slide. He should have pressed Cowley harder to take it seriously, should have worked harder—too late.

He huddled against the vinyl seat, waiting for the whip sting of guilt, but his conscience lay heavy and mute within him, an organ in trauma.

The sun glared off the windscreen; he fumbled in his pocket for sunglasses and put them on. Great, the lenses were scratched, probably from the spare ammunition cartridge. Wary of the silent presence at his side, he looked out the window. They were driving alongside an embankment. Militant political slogans contradicted each other in ever-gaudier streaks of spray-paint splashed hastily across a concrete wall. His mind replaced it with a picture of the graffiti on a wall in the Interrogation Centre. 'Some deaths take forever.'

Attrition he guessed it meant, not that he cared. That's the way faith had left him, seeped away, small doubts unresolved, tragic events for which there were no explanations, keen observation of the unpunished brutality of one man to another, of his own outrage worn into indifference.

Ideals were flimsy things when you came down to it.

He found himself in his flat without quite remembering the series of mechanical motions that had got him there, being coaxed by Bodie to sit down. "Listen, I still have a courtesy call to pay on that Lane character; will you be all right?"

After a minute, Doyle nodded.

"I'll be back," Bodie said, and the door slammed behind him.

Doyle slumped on the sofa and stared vacantly at the window, letting the bright light that filtered in through the curtains blind him. He was still sitting there a few hours later, when he heard the key grinding in the lock.

Bodie hovered in the doorway, hand on the knob as if he could not make up his mind whether to enter or not. He looked slightly dishevelled, although he'd got fresh clothes in the time he'd been out; his breathing came fast and hard, all the muscles in his face clearly defined, and his brows were drawn into a grim black line.

"Have a bad time with Lane, did you?" Doyle asked.

Bodie shot him an unfathomable look. "Nearly bought it gettin' out of me car, that's all. Didn't know they were handing out driving licences to maniacs these days."

"You got one, didn't you?" Doyle put in, unable to resist.

"Such wit," Bodie said, and closed the door. "Can I stay here tonight?"

"Course," Doyle said absently.

Bodie sat down opposite him, and crossed one leg over the other. The sofa shook as he jiggled his knee up and down. Moments later, he bounced to his feet and circled around the room, coming at last to stand in front of Doyle.

"Look, you're not going to spend the evening wallowing in guilt and self-pity are you?"

Doyle looked up, startled. He'd been miles away. "No. I'm not. Nothing to wallow in, any case." All spent years ago.

Bodie eyed him dubiously.  "If you say so."

Was he mistaken, or did Bodie sound disappointed? Bloody typical, that was, upbraid him for being idealistic, then act crestfallen when he didn't live up to it. "I'm fine," Doyle said. "Or as fine as you can be after a massacre."

"It was hardly a massacre."

"I need a drink." He poured himself a stiff one, but didn't drink it Instead he turned back to Bodie. "Let's go to bed," he said and held out his hand.

"Already? It's barely gone dark outside."

"Not to sleep, you cretin."

Enlightenment registered on Bodie's face as Doyle strode across the room, gripped his arms with desperate strength and locked their mouths together. His teeth clashed with Bodie's momentarily before he eased up.

"Make me forget," he said.

Then, as if he had opened a floodgate, all the misery and horror of the afternoon swooped down. The images tore at him like birds of prey, clawing at his mind and his heart, digging out the guilt he'd thought he buried. All aggression fled, he sagged against Bodie. A tiny whimper escaped him.

Bodie sighed. "Come on, come to bed, then."

He looked into Bodie's face and somehow found comfort in the blank inscrutability there.

Once in the bedroom, he let himself be undressed like a child. Then he was on Bodie in a swarm of flesh. "Hurry," he said, "Come on, man, fuck me," causing Bodie's eyes to widen in shocked delight.

Acutely conscious of his painful erection, he let Bodie kiss him and caress him as long as he could stand it. He felt around on the bedside table for the tube of gel he had finally given in and bought a week ago, staring the chemist down with cold eyes to hide his embarrassment. But he was glad of it now. He took Bodie's cock in one hand, used the other to wet him down, tracing the veins throbbing bluely, holding Bodie's sleepy blue gaze all the while, feeding from the pleasure reflected there.

"Me next," he said, and knelt down, hurling himself against the fingers lubricating him and opening him.

He refused Bodie's gentle handling of his body, cajoled and cursed him by turns, growing more abusive until Bodie dragged him out of bed and pushed his face into the floor and fucked him hard and sweet and slow.

His fingers dug into the carpet, pulling great tufts loose. He growled in pleasure when Bodie's hand gripped his cock, weltering in the sanctuary of Bodie's body covering

and surrounding him, sure fingers bringing him easily to sobbing ecstasy, but it wasn't until he felt the warm convulsions of Bodie within him and the stillness after, that he attained peace.

Only the senses can cure the soul.

 

 

XXII.

 

 

THE SUN WAS RISING when he awoke, suffusing the room with a fragile pink dawn. He lay quietly in the bed, watched the colour deepen as the light grew brighter. Bodie was still asleep, curled confidingly around him, head pillowed in Doyle's shoulder. Dark spiky strands of hair adhered to his forehead.

Sweet, to lie like this, no need to rush off somewhere, no hurry to get up, with sunlight dancing on the ceiling, Bodie warm and heavy in his arms. He fingered a loose strand of Bodie's hair between thumb and forefinger, absently twiddling. But bodily needs intruded, as they always will. He smoothed the errant feathers of hair back into place and kissed his cheek, then carefully disentangled himself and went to the bathroom.

He washed the sleep from his eyes, and rinsed his mouth out, winced as cold water stung the spot where his teeth had cut his inner lip. Bit over the top last night, he'd been, he thought, a little ashamed.

His mirror image grinned cheekily at him. Easily enough remedied.

Bodie had turned on his back, knocked the pillows to the floor. Though unconscious, his body was tense, muscles taut as if to declare his readiness to leap from the bed, poised for action.

Doyle sat beside him and placed his hand on Bodie's breastbone to feel his heartbeat, savouring the slow, comforting thud against his palm. Idly, he noted the brownness of his fingers against white skin that glistened with sweat. He blew a light stream of air down his belly. A fan, he thought, need a fan.

After tracing the startling demarcation of hair at his groin, his hand slid down to cradle the sticky softness of testicles, wonderfully cool in the warm nest of thigh.

Bodie slept on, but his cock stirred like a separate being, and Doyle sank his lips around it, bringing it fully to life. He himself needed no such encouragement, but then he never did these days, did he? He hadn't had so much sex since he was twenty-five, but his body was never satisfied. Each encounter served only to whet his appetite, till sometimes he felt he was walking around with a perpetual hard-on.   The barest suggestion and up it went. Was ridiculous at his age.

"What're y'doin'?" Bodie's voice was no more than sleep-slurred syllables.

"Makin' love to you, dope, what does it feel like I'm doing?"

As if to verify the truth of that statement, Bodie opened his eyes halfway. "Oh, is that what you call it? He closed them again.  "Carry on," he said largely.

Doyle applied his mouth faithfully while Bodie's fingers wandered through his hair. He was brought up short by a sharp tug.

"Best leave it, sunshine, don't think I'm goin' to get it this mornin'." Bodie yawned, exposing the pink roof of his mouth.  "Used me up, you have." He raised his head. "Stop giving me those big 'don't-be-cross-at-me' eyes; I'm not complaining."

Doyle looked at the wall over Bodie's head. The paint had yellowed with age, but there was a bright white patch where a picture had once hung. His eyes traced the discoloured outline. He felt a hand on his crotch.

"Ah, I understand the problem. Come here." He moved, so quickly Doyle lost his balance and fell on the floor. Bodie picked him up and made him sit on the edge of the bed. He buried his face in Doyle's lap, rubbed his cheek across his cock, then took it in his mouth.

Doyle tried to thrust up, but Bodie held him tightly by the hips, arms leaning heavily on his thighs.

Too soon, he began to come. Because all his body was restrained from movement, pinned by Bodie's hampering weight, the sensations drew themselves out, excruciating and exquisite. And afterwards, when Bodie kissed him, it was as long and as sweet as his climax, tinged with melancholy.  He sprawled back on the bed.

Bodie lay down next to him. "Ought to clean the cobwebs off your ceiling," he remarked.

"I like 'em," Doyle said. "They catch the light in the morning. The little drops glitter in there like a handful of diamonds. Sometimes I think the spider's ghost is living there, trapping light the way it used to trap flies."

Bodie was looking at him as if he was the eighth wonder of the world. "You think about things like that?"

"Well, yeah. All the time." The awed gaze directed at him made him wish he had kept his mouth shut. He averted his head.  "I dunno.   Weird, huh?"

"No," Bodie said.

Doyle felt like a door had been slammed in his face. It wasn't Bodie's fault, he supposed, no one had ever understood the peculiar turn of his mind. But he was disappointed in spite of himself.

Bodie hopped out of the bed and started to dress. "Got the seven-thirty call," he said by way of explanation.

"What, no bath?" Doyle said scathingly. "Cowley'll know what you've been up to."

"But not with whom," Bodie returned, in the process of stepping into his trousers. "Speaking of Cowley—"

"I'd rather not," Doyle put in.

Several seconds went by before Doyle realised he was not going to get a response. He started to feel uneasy. Always a quick, efficient dresser (amazing how people's personal habits reflected their character), Bodie was taking an awfully long time about buttoning his shirt. "Listen," Bodie said finally, avoiding Doyle's eyes, "Got to cool it for a while, mate. He was on at me the other day about spending too much time over here."

"He suspects?"

"Nah. 'I know you and Doyle are close, Bodie, a lot of my units are, but it doesn't look good, you understand.' Quote, unquote."

Not as optimistic about this as Bodie seemed to be, Doyle considered the problem. "You should tell him. He'll have a stroke if he finds out from another source."

"No way," Bodie said. "He'd spit us, roast us, then chuck us out on our ears."

Their eyes met in wry acknowledgment. "What if he does find out?" Doyle asked. "If he puts Special Branch on to investigate like he said, we could be in trouble."

Bodie fastened his cuffs with inordinate care, and tucked his shirt in. "Don't know," he said. "Call it quits, I suppose."

"What, pack the mob in?" Doyle shrank from the thought.

"Oh, and do what? No, this. You an' me."

Open-mouthed, Doyle stared at him. He must've misheard.

"Be a pity," Bodie went on, oblivious. "Just when I've got it all worked out." He disappeared into the bathroom. Doyle heard water running.

He felt like a man who thinking himself on solid ground looks down to discover he is knee-deep in quicksand. He floundered for a semblance of composure, got up and followed Bodie to the bathroom. "Are you saying you'd drop it like a rock?" Drop me? his mind echoed.

Bodie was drying his face. He set the towel aside and picked up a comb. "No choice, mate." He wet the comb down, shook out the excess moisture, and ran it through his hair.

Doyle's jaw clenched to control an inrush of anger. "I don't believe it."

Hair neatened to his satisfaction, Bodie put the comb in his pocket. His reflection looked at Doyle and rolled its eyes. "Be fair, Ray, you wouldn't resign on my account either."

Doyle opened his mouth to speak and closed it again.  Surely it wouldn't come to that.

"I might," he said.

"Oh, come on, you're not tryin' to make me believe you'd give up your pension, are you?" His tone was light and teasing, but his expression was guarded, giving nothing away.

The blank blue stare gave Doyle a crawly sensation, as if Bodie was poking around inside his skull. He lowered his eyes, embarrassingly aware of his nakedness.

"There, see," Bodie said kindly. "Don't apologise. I know what the job means to you."

"Now wait a minute—" Doyle halted, not knowing what he was planning to say. How did it get to be his fault? He tried to retrace the steps but his thoughts were spinning like a whirligig.

Bodie gazed thoughtfully at his twin in the mirror. "Mind you, we could lie low for a bit, till it blew over," he said, addressing the image. "Then pick up where we left off. If we're under surveillance though, have to be very careful. Yeah, I like that idea a lot better." His eyes sparkled. "Bit of the cloak and dagger stuff, codewords, midnight rendezvous, all that, put a little zip into things, eh?"

Doyle thought there was plenty of zip already. He managed to snap, "You're bored, you want out, you just say the word, Bodie."

"Oh, I will," Bodie said. Unconcerned, he patted Doyle on the behind and walked out of the bathroom.

Doyle stood there, looking into the mirror.    His reflection eyed him with cool disdain, as though he were a stranger.  He turned and hurried into the bedroom to find his jeans. He dragged them on, had trouble with fastening them. His hands were shaking.

Humming, Bodie picked up his holster from the chest of drawers, slid into it, put on his jacket and pulled his keys from the pocket. Only then did he seem to notice Doyle's furious struggle with his zip. "Look, this is a stupid conversation.  It hasn't happened."

 

_the spider’s ghost-_

— _trapping the light_

 

 

"But it could," Doyle said.

"Don't worry, we'll think of something. Not going to let you go that easy."

"Yeah, sure."

"I don't have time for this," Bodie said. "See you later." He was out the door before Doyle could say anything.

The metal teeth of his zip jammed, bringing tears of frustration to his eyes. "Oh, fuck it," he said to the empty room and gave up the battle. He grabbed the pillows, flung them on the bed, and his body after them. What a bloody idiot he was.

His eye was caught by the cobwebs, still shimmering with light, but now he saw them for what they really were, useless clumps of dust and debris.

He lay there for a long time, then got up, bathed, dressed and went to work.

 

By the time he arrived at HQ, his frustration was bubbling up into rage, and Bodie's cheery greeting did nothing to cool him down. Without replying, he headed for his desk, intending to put together a report on the robberies for the police investigation.

Bodie materialised at the foot of his desk. "Raring to go after our lie-in, are we?"

"Sod off, Bodie." He started to copy his notes onto a fresh sheet of paper.

"Ok, what's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Don't give me that."

"If you have to ask, you'll never know."

"What are you doing there," Bodie asked after hovering for a minute.

"Paperwork." Doyle carried on writing. "Very boring, sunshine, not up your alley at all. No zip."

"Look," Bodie said, "Whatever it is, I'm sorry."

Doyle gave him a long measuring look. "Of course you are."

Bodie shoved his hands into his pockets and shifted from one foot to another. "You're not on about this morning, are you?"

"You're too sharp for this line of work, mate."

"You are on about this morning."

"No, why should I be?" Doyle raised his eyebrows and gestured in mock surprise. "Devoted to my career, that's me. Why should I care if you jump ship, it'll make it easier to get some work done. Gotta think of me pension, right?" He glared up at Bodie. "So piss off."

Bodie ducked  his head and  batted  his eyelashes. "Never knew you cared."

"You bas—" Doyle broke off, noticing a few heads turned their direction. He stood up and shouldered into his jacket. "In fact, since I can't get anything done here, I think I'll drop in on Lane. I've got a few questions for him."

"Better clear it with the Cow, mate."

"Whose side are you on?" Doyle growled.

Bodie caught him by the arm. "Ours. We've got problems of our own."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"How's it going to look for CI5, after what Lane said about you, if you go leanin' on him?"

Abruptly, Doyle's fury boiled over. "You don't care about any of this, do you? No, you follow orders like a good little boy, while Cowley sits like a spider in his web, people die and he doesn't care as long as it fits in with his schemes. Well, I've had it, do you hear?"

"Do you really believe that, Doyle?"

Doyle turned to see Cowley standing in the doorway, solemn as an undertaker in a charcoal grey suit. He sighed, partly in chagrin, partly in annoyance.

"Well, Doyle?" Cowley said.

"I don't like the way this case is being handled."

"I'll thank you to keep your opinion to yourself unless I ask for it. I know what's best for this organisation."

Doyle's temper surged up again. "Well, I don't care about this organisation right now. I'm going to do something about those raiders, and CI5's reputation can go to hell. I'm staying on it until it's over."

He stalked out.

He heard Bodie's voice raised to Cowley, then the clatter of footsteps and Bodie was beside him. "Yeah, what good did that do, you moron! You think shouting at Cowley is going to help anyone?"

Doyle paid him no mind. He marched down to the street, steadfastly ignoring Bodie until he opened his car door. "You sure you want to be seen with me? Someone might think we're in bed together."

"Don't be like that," Bodie said lightly, but his eyes glittered and his mouth set into an angry line as he got into the car.

Doyle stomped on the accelerator before Bodie had the door quite closed, gears howling as he wrenched the car into a U-turn.

"I told you once before, Bodie, I'm not a bit of run on the side."

"Oh, god, not again," Bodie muttered.  "Leave it out, Ray."

Doyle pulled up outside the rundown office block Lane had given as his address. "Oh, and what happened to 'I'll never leave you', eh, Bodie?" He meant it to sound caustic, but his voice trembled just enough to ruin the effect.

"All right, all right. You want to face down Cowley and get tossed out of the mob with the press and the whole soddin' world laughing, fine with me." Bodie slammed the car door and followed Doyle inside. "Happy now?"

The lift door was open and Doyle hit the button for the second floor. At least something worked. "Bein' careful, what with vetting, all that, I don't mind, be crazy not to," he went on, speaking through clenched teeth. The lift stopped.

"Then what the bloody hell is the matter with you?" Bodie shouted, then glanced down the corridor to see if anyone was there.

"You don't get it, do you?" Doyle went on through clenched teeth. "'Course not, you never bothered to ask, did you? You never bothered to ask."

They were approaching the door to Lane's office.

"I give up, Doyle. Now for chrissakes, will you please stop talking about it."

"I will not. I've had enough of being jerked around, by this clown, by Cowley, by CI5 and by you. I want some answers." He rapped on the door. "Come on, Lane, I know you're in there, open up." He knocked again; when there was no answer he tried the door. It was unlocked.

"Go on, open it, then," Bodie said.

"Don't try an' change the subject," Doyle said, pushing the door open.

"—wait for it," Bodie muttered.

"And that's another thing " Doyle broke off and stood transfixed, whatever he had started to say forgotten. Lane flopped over his desk, a bullet wound through his temple.

His mind clearing instantly to focus on the job, Doyle pulled out his r/t. "4/5 to Alpha One, come in."

"Cowley here."

"Lane's been killed."

Bodie went over to the body.  "He's dead all right."

"Murdered?" came Cowley's voice.

"Any sign of the gun?" Doyle said to Bodie.

"Probably at the bottom of the Thames," Bodie said. "That's what I'd do."

"Yeah," Doyle agreed, thinking. "Rules out suicide then, sir," he said into the r/t.

"I'm on my way.  Alpha One out."

Bodie opened the door and stepped out to check the corridor.

Doyle looked round the one-room office. A green metal desk and matching filing cabinet took up most of the floor space. Behind the desk was a small window with drawn blinds. Careful to avoid touching Lane, he riffled through a stack of papers on the desk. Bills. Bodie came back in and closed the door. A brown coat swung silently from a hook on the inside.

"Like to get into those files," Doyle said.

"Will that do?" Bodie pulled a white square of cloth from his pocket.

Doyle snatched it. "You're too good to me," he said, dropping unthinkingly into their habitual patter.

Bodie raised a disapproving eyebrow.

Using the cloth to pull the handle, Doyle slid the top drawer open. The files hung in a row with neatly typed labels. Might be a few missing, but it was hard to tell. "D'you think he typed all these himself?"

Bodie came up behind him. "Don't know. Probably," he said, pointing to the typewriter.

"Here we go," Doyle said, pulling out a file with the name Adler crossed out and Harris written over it. He started going through the papers. "Hired last spring after the first robbery—more investigative notes, hmm. Ha. Sinclair contacted him a week after Harris was mugged."

"Chancy."

"Nah. Lane wouldn't have any reason to suspect him, and it'd be the best way for Sinclair to get a line on Harris, right?"

There were several surveillance photos of himself in the file, putting the stuff in the boot of the Fiesta, along with a few notes.

"Ditch 'em," Bodie said, "no one will know."

"Are you out of your mind? No-one will take this seriously."

"Then why not toss it?"

"I'm not destroying evidence," Doyle said, "they can make what they like of it"

"Cowley won't like having to explain it to the cops," Bodie said, flipping a slat up on the blinds and peering out. "Look out, here he comes with the local boys in tow."

Quickly Doyle replaced the file and shut the drawer. After a moment they heard footsteps and sharp voices outside, but Cowley entered alone. He surveyed the room and his agents with distaste.

"Somebody had the same idea about Lane that we did," said Doyle, "only they got to him first."

"Where were you, Doyle?"

"He was with me, sir," Bodie said quickly.

"Did you find anything?" Cowley said, gesturing at the file cabinet.

Doyle started, and glanced at Bodie. How did Cowley know—for a second, he considered pretending, then shrugged. "A few spy photos of me and his notes. If that was all he had, I don't get it."

Cowley's gaze went over his head. "Bodie, you spoke to him last; did he tell you anything?"

"Same as we already guessed. He wasn't very friendly. Didn't want to share his information," Bodie's gaze narrowed and his smile grew broader, "but I convinced him. Harris told him he suspected the raiders were after his collection, but I reckon Harris wanted to keep them from throwing a spanner into his works."

"So Lane suspected the robbery was coming up and he didn't report it?" Doyle's shout was damped by the ceiling tile overhead.

"Under the circumstances, we'll have to turn it over to the Met.," Cowley said. "You had better be right about there being nothing incriminating, Doyle." He opened the

door to the detective outside.

As soon as Doyle gave his statement to the police, Cowley whisked him away, leaving Bodie with instructions to observe and report in later.

Back at CI5, Cowley demanded every scrap of paper Doyle had on the raids, and kept him on into the evening reviewing the entire file to search out any possible connection to Harris.

Tired and out of sorts, he arrived at his flat to find Bodie staring morosely at the television. He barely acknowledged Doyle's greeting. What a lovely welcome home, Doyle thought, and was about to say so when Bodie switched off the television and bid him a curt goodnight.

Doyle flopped on the sofa, and sat there for over an hour, thinking and listening to the silence, then dragged himself off to the bedroom, dumped his clothes and got into bed.

Exhausted, he curled up beside Bodie and went to sleep.

 

 

XXIII.

 

DOYLE'S EYES FLEW OPEN, his senses alerted by something he couldn't name. Hot dreamy darkness caressed him, and nothing moved.

Thoughts in limbo, he made out the shape of his partner sitting on the edge of his bed, one leg folded under him, head bowed to some purpose Doyle didn't as yet understand. Then he heard the oiled click of a safety being released.

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing, mate," Bodie's voice asserted blandly. "Go back to sleep."

Craning his neck to see around his back, Doyle caught the dull smoky gleam of metal turning in Bodie's hands. A glance at the bedside table told him the rest. "Would you stop playin' around with my gun?"

"You know," Bodie said as if he hadn't heard, "These things used to give me a charge, just laying my hands on one. Now, it's nothing but a hunk of steel."

Doyle was beside him in a second, but he didn't touch him when he saw the glow in his eyes; alight with an inner incandescence, an electric blue torch.

"It's funny the way we trust each other absolutely with this stuff around," Bodie remarked. He twisted and levelled the weapon on Doyle. "I could blow you away right now and no one but you an' me would ever know that I did it." He smiled. "No one but me."

Doyle shuddered involuntarily despite the pleasant tone. No doubt Bodie would kill him if he ever took it into his head that the job required it, but for now Doyle waited, to see what happened next.

Bodie slid an arm around his shoulders, cuddled him close. The gun muzzle rested lightly at his temple, and velvet-soft lips grazed his cheek. "One flick of the finger and you're out of your misery. Forever." The trigger clicked.

"Don't, Bodie."

Bodie flipped the gun on himself. He cocked his head to one side and turned the gun this way and that, examining it "All the wonders of civilisation," he said. "Care to try it?"

Doyle reached for the weapon, slowly, keeping an eye on Bodie the whole time, and laid hold of the barrel. He pried Bodie's fingers loose, one at a time, slowly and carefully, and ever so gently removed the gun from his grasp, handling it as if it were a foreign object. His fingers trembled as he checked the magazine. He snapped the safety, tore out the cartridge and dumped the bullets on the floor, wrenched open the chamber for the bullet there.

It was empty.

Bodie watched this operation with bright bird-like gaze. The expressive mouth twitched at Doyle's discovery, then he broke into a chuckle. Doyle suppressed an irritated sigh of relief. But his face must have shown something of what he felt, because Bodie leant over and patted his cheek, still chuckling. "Had you goin' there, didn't I?"

Doyle laid the gun back in its place on the bedside table. "For godsakes, Bodie, why do you do things like that?"

Bodie smiled at him, eyes wide and wild now. "It's exciting." He slid his palm across Doyle's chest, held it over his heart. "You're excited, too, your heart's goin' like a jackhammer."

He touched his lips to the artery on Doyle's neck, and Doyle felt the blood leaping up as if to spill over into Bodie's mouth. "I was scared," he said. "Big difference."

"Really?" Bodie murmured into his neck. His hand fell to Doyle's crotch, began massaging. "Really," he repeated, "How come you're halfway there already?"

Doyle had no answer for this; ashamed, he put his own hand on Bodie's as if to pull it away, but instead all he did was follow the circling movements, guiding Bodie's hand into strokes as his cock stiffened.

Strong arms lifted him, pulled him back to lie on Bodie's chest, Bodie's mouth sought his and his legs wrapped around Doyle's hips. "Come on," Bodie said against his cheek, "What are you waiting for? Shove it in."

Doyle shook his head, confused. "What? I can't fuck you just like that."

"Why not?"

"It'll hurt.  You know it'll hurt."

"So hurt me."

His eyes brimmed with unholy mirth, possessed of a malignant force that both attracted and repulsed. Doyle could not prevent his instinctive recoil, nor could he deny the eager bolts of desire shuddering through his body.

"I want you to," Bodie said. As if to vouch for the truth of those words, the sinewy hardness poking Doyle's thigh gave an eloquent throb.

"OK, OK," Doyle said. He turned his head and spat into his palm, slicked down his erection, and positioned himself again. He bit down into Bodie's shoulder hoping to divert him from pain and penetrated him in one mad, exhilarating plunge past the outer defences to the deeper warmth beyond, halted there when his thighs connected with Bodie's.

Bewitched by the agonising tightness encasing his cock, he watched sweat beads pop out on Bodie's forehead.

He pulled out and thrust again, listened to the slap of slick flesh together.

Bodie's face was all screwed up, his head tossed from side to side. It excited Doyle, and he made another rude thrust, felt tight muscle yield under the pressure of his assault. God, it was great, he was on fire, then a rippling cramp around his arousal broke the spell. He stopped. "I don't like this. I don't like hurting you."

"You have to," Bodie said through clenched teeth. "Come on, fuck me."

Doyle would have drawn back even then, but Bodie had his arms and legs locked around his back. His fingers clamped painfully around Doyle's rear, kept him there against any escape, in a half-rape, and he couldn't get away, every movement only buried him deeper.

He leant forward to rub his belly against Bodie's cock, wanting, needing to stir him, for nothing else could justify his more urgent, cruder need to go on.

His skin felt as though he was burning alive, sweat pouring out of him onto Bodie's chest.

Anger seared him, reckless fury directed at Bodie for pushing him into this and he hated that anger in himself, and so became angrier still. "Stop fighting me, then, damn you!"

He withdrew and plunged home again, and again, fucking him harder and faster. Then the resistance dissolved and he was dragging Bodie along with him, he could tell by the flushed cheeks, the hot, glazy eyes.

Oh god, he had gone all soft and steamy inside and Doyle nearly went insane with the sensation.

Bodie thumped him once over the kidneys. "That's it, lover, let it all out, you're such a sexy bastard," and more such, but Doyle was too far gone to hear.

Immersed in fiery flesh, he could no longer tell where he left off and Bodie began, they were one, fused and he lost the last shred of sanity and caution.    "Bodie," he

pleaded, "Tell me you love me."

"Can't."

"Lie if you have to, please "

"No."

Bodie's flat rejection slammed him headlong into a brick wall, leaving him winded and dizzied in a calm centre of pain while desire raged around him and Bodie both. He gazed into Bodie's eyes, so nearly black, they mocked him and his meaningless passion.

He let his anger and hurt fuel his lust and he soared, nothing could have stopped him now. He was in the middle of the storm, an automatic pilot was guiding him, driving him on towards the inevitable explosion.

But in the midst of his fierce arousal he wept bitter tears.

They gasped and clung and came together in one defeated heap.

When the fog cleared his mind, he heard Bodie chuckling in his ear. He got out of the bed and went to the bathroom, stared at himself in the mirror with perfect loathing.

His face was white and strained, russet-brown brows slashed upwards like bird's wings above slanting green eyes which held a hard and hunted look.

Ghost-like, Bodie's reflection materialised in the mirror behind him.

Stark and pale, the apparition seemed some cold, proud angel of darkness come to drag him down to hell where he belonged.

"Come back to bed," the image said. When Doyle didn't respond, "Come on," taking him by the hand and leading him.

Uncaring, Doyle let himself be led.

Bodie sat next to him and brushed a hand down his cheek. "Always knew there was more to you than sweetness and light."

"That's a lousy thing to say, Bodie."

"Come on, it was great.  You loved it."

Doyle felt something twist inside. "Yeah, I know I did."

"Hey, you're really upset, aren't you?" He put his arms around Doyle, and rocked him, whispering soothing nonsense words.

Doyle's mind erupted into a cacophony of words and jagged phrases. He fished around among them but they eluded his grasp and what he came out with was, "You scared the hell out of me."

Bodie's fingers slid from his ear to his temple, tangled gently in his hair.  "Yeah.  I know."

Doyle knocked his hand away. " I know?' Is that all you can say?"

"What do you want me to say?"

"'Sorry' might be nice."

"I'm not."

"No, you wouldn't be, would you? Why should you be? It's all a bloody game to you after all."

Bodie muttered something unintelligible and his forearm tightened in a convulsive grip around Doyle's chest.  "Don't you understand?   Whatever we do, it's us together, you and me, that's what it's all about."

"No," Doyle said. "I don't understand. I don't want to understand, not if it means gettin' off on Russian roulette."

"It's not like that," Bodie said.   His voice echoed hollowly at Doyle's back. "And you were gettin' off on it, too, don't try and pretend different."

The reminder of his own cruelty bit into him like salt on an open wound.  "Oh, yeah, it was great, really great. Pair of real sweethearts, that's us."

 

 

XXIV.

 

HE SET HIMSELF THE TASK of reviewing the Harris business from start to finish, if only to escape the clamour of brawling emotions that ambushed him every time he so much as thought about Bodie. To his surprise, he discovered a possible connection overlooked before; after a bit of cross-checking, he forwarded the information to Cowley. Late in the week, Cowley summoned him.

Cowley was changing his shirt; he ushered Doyle in briskly and ordered him to sit. His desk had been cleared except for one folder. "What have you got for me, 4/5? Make it quick, I've a dinner engagement at my club." He opened the door of the wardrobe he used as a home away from home.

Doyle crossed one leg over his knee and picked up the file. Did Cowley ever bother to read the reports his agents turned in? or did he just require them as matter of principle? Mean streak, probably. "As I noted here," he said pointedly, "Harris' wife indicated that he had stepped up his social whirl recently. Seems to me all that activity points to something."

"I'd say it was fairly typical for a man in his position," Cowley said, bending close to the cabinet mirror to knot his tie.

"You mentioned private sales, so I thought maybe he was using them to launder the money. I checked it against the import records of his company; the timing was perfect. Now that's obvious, so I traced the bank records. Remember the other guys you had me on last month well, most of the funds went into their pockets by way of these sales."

Cowley looked up at him. Putting on his glasses, he walked over and took the file, flipped through it, then broke into a chuckle. "It's been staring me in the face the whole time. Private sales, dinners, receptions—" He slapped the file with his glasses. "The ideal places to make political and diplomatic contacts and to quietly conduct business. Remember the old-school espionage network?"

Doyle remembered, more or less, but he wasn't up on the details and didn't want Cowley filling him in at the moment. "Before my time, sir."

"Never mind."

So the art collection was the key, Doyle thought; he'd been looking at it backwards. He supposed he should feel vindicated, but the past week had left him drained of all energy. "Thank you, sir."

Cowley was flipping excitedly through his desk calendar. "I thought so. In two weeks there's a reception and ball in honour of the junior French ambassador. You and I will attend." He chewed on the earpiece of his glasses. "I'll put a man in tomorrow; he can report on the layout before we arrive."

"Who else is goin' in with us?"

"Just you and I, Doyle."

"What about Bodie?"

"Bodie," Cowley said with some asperity, "has duties of his own to occupy him." His eyes raked Doyle up and down, cool and colourless as starlight.

Doyle returned his gaze with an open stare that revealed nothing.

Cowley frowned, and glanced around the room as if debating with himself, but he turned away with a slight shake of his head. "Well, I must be off, we'll get the details worked out later. Go home, 4/5, and try to get some rest, you're looking quite haggard lately."

Doyle found himself in the corridor without having been able to think of a suitable reply. Haggard! Wasn't the half of it. Cowley and his army of advisors would have a fit if they knew.

He went straight to bed when he got home, bypassing both kitchen and bathroom, even though he was hungry and in want of a wash. He paused long enough to remove shoes, jacket, and belt, then sank onto the bed. Ought to take off the rest of his clothes. Later, he thought. Jesus, he was tired.

Poised on the edge of sleeping and waking, he half-dreamt longingly of winter, of cold and ice and north winds, of lying silently in a glass-covered coffin amid snow-shrouded lands found only in fairy tales. He floated to the peak of a mountain and gazed down on the country spread before him, gleaming brilliantly white and pure, pristine, unmarked by his passing.

Perhaps he was comforted by these images, or perhaps Cowley's brusque advice temporarily relieved him of the burden of responsibility. At any rate, he slept deeply for the first time that week.

So deeply that when he awoke to the scratching sound of a key being fitted into the lock, he didn't move, didn't even open his eyes. Intruder, his mind shouted. Good, maybe they'd do the job right this time and finish him off. He tried to think. Where was his gun? Images fragmented—what are you doing here—glittering shards of glass—ohgod room's spinning—curtains blowing through the window—no, wait a key.  Bodie had a key.

The tumblers clicked and the door swung open. "I'm home, dear," a voice called out, unmistakeably Bodie's despite the stentorian delivery.

Doyle unglued his lids and squinted at the clock, but the numbers were black wiggles in a white blur. He heard the door close softly and a dark shape came through the bedroom doorway.

"Ray," it said in Bodie's normal tone. "You there?"

"I'm here," Doyle said. He flipped the switch on the bedside lamp, put a hand up to ward off the light. "God, what time is it?"

Bodie leered at him. "Bout midnight, angelface." He was carrying a bag of some sort and he walked over the bed and set it down. "'Tis the witching hour," opening the bag "and your fairy godmother's left you something," reaching into the bag and pulling out a tabletop fan with the panache of a Blackstone. He held it up in one hand for Doyle to admire.

If thy right hand offends thee...

"What's wrong, don't you like it?" Bodie asked.

"No, I mean, yeah, it's fine, thanks," Doyle said. He took the fan from Bodie and stared helplessly at the bright metal blades.

Bodie tugged gently at the object. "Get you another if you don't like it," he offered.

"I like it," Doyle snapped. "Switch it on, will you?"

"There's gratitude for you," Bodie said, but he did as he was asked. He unwound the cord and plugged it in, then set the fan on the bedside table with unsteady hands. "Thought you'd be happy, mate, you've been complaining for months about the heat." He thumbed the switch, and cool air blasted across Doyle's arm through the thin fabric of his shirt, making him shiver.

"Sorry," Doyle mumbled, and slithered back on the bed to lean against the wall, "But what do you expect when you come waltzing over at this time of night wakin' me up?"

His reply was a beatific smile.

"You drunk?"

"Certainly not," Bodie said, offended. "Mildly inebriated, perhaps, but quite legal." He sat on the edge of the bed, bent forward and kissed Doyle's cheekbone. His breath was warm and smelt of alcohol, acrid and sweet at the same time.

Doyle studied his eyes suspiciously. They were wide and clear, pupils properly focussed.  Not that he cared if Bodie pickled himself, but he couldn't talk to Bodie when he was pissed, and talk they must.

Under his scrutiny, Bodie's eyes softened and he smiled tenderly. He combed the curls off Doyle's forehead and ran a finger over his ear. "Been wondering where you'd got off to, lately."

"I thought you wanted to lie low," Doyle said. "Remember?" He shivered again. Damn fan was giving him gooseflesh. He piled the covers up around his waist. After a minute he thrust them aside. "Anyway, I needed to think."

"Oh? And what did that brilliant mind of yours come up with?"

"Think maybe we better pack it in, sunshine."

Bodie's smile faded slowly, as if he had not decided what expression should replace it. "I see. What brings this on?"

"As if you don't know." Doyle jumped out of bed and headed for the sitting room.

He heard the bedsprings groan as Bodie got up to follow him. "I'll have your things sent round tomorrow," he said without turning.

"No," Bodie said.

"What d'you mean, no?"

Bodie was leaning in the door frame, hands shoved in his pockets. He gave Doyle a long, measuring stare. "I don't agree."

"Tough. Door's that way."

"I have half the say in this partnership and I don't agree." Bodie stood up straight and folded his arms. 'You know, this is great, really great. Correct me if I'm mistaken, but I seem to recall you lecturing me on the subject of fair warning, commitment, all that. I also seem to recall you havin' a heart attack when I suggested the job might interfere with our little arrangement."

Doyle felt his hands ball into fists in response, deliberately relaxed them. "What do you care? Oh, I forgot, it's easy for you, you're getting what you want."

"Oh, is that so? You spend so much time agonising over the plight of people you don't even know, it's a wonder you have anything left over for the likes of me." He swayed, put out a hand to steady himself against the door frame, and Doyle wondered again how much he'd had to drink.

"You disappear to god knows where for a whole fucking week, so you can atone for whatever sin you think you've committed this time, and tonight," Bodie went on, virtually shouting now, his lashes fluttering rapidly like moth wings against glass, "Tonight when I come round to find out what the problem is, you think you're goin' to show me the door without so much as one word of explanation?" He paused for breath and pointed his finger at Doyle. "You better think again."

Doyle's cheeks flushed hot, but he held his chin up and made himself meet Bodie's gaze. "'S gettin' too deep for me, mate," he said. "The other night—I had to think about it."

Bodie's lip curled with ineffable contempt. "Oh, we've offended his delicate moral sensibilities, have we?" he said grandly. "Should have known it'd be something like that." He pushed himself away from the support of the wall. "Not good enough, sunshine, you'll have to come up with a better excuse if you want to get rid of me. Try something personal for a change."

He went into the kitchen, returned with a bottle and two glasses.

"I know," Doyle said with ferocious courtesy, "Help yourself to a drink, it's only my booze, no need to stand on ceremony on my account."

Bodie ignored this, calmly filled the glasses and offered one to Doyle. When Doyle waved him off, he set the bottle and other glass on the stereo cabinet. He stood with his back to Doyle for some minutes, then pivoted in one neat economical motion, features disciplined to marble impassivity. "OK, what's all the fuss about?"

Doyle let out his breath in a long whistling sigh. "Don't know exactly," he admitted. "Can't think straight any more."

Bodie crooked an eyebrow up. He reached behind him and switched on the light.

The allure of his face in the light was simple and straightforward, unblemished male beauty that even age and cynicism could not eradicate. Doyle felt a peculiar stab in his chest at the sight, not quite a pain, but painful nonetheless. He pushed a straggling curl out of his eye, ran his fingers through his hair. "It's weird, you know, never had myself pegged for queer but I can handle that right enough. An' then takin' all these chances like we have, well, I thought, that's a little crazy, but no harm done. But I can't handle what happened the other night, it was downright sick."

"Sick," Bodie said. "Good word, that, very precise." He finished his drink and poured himself another. "What is it, can't take the rough stuff?"

Doyle's chin lifted.  "No.  But it's gonna go too far."

"What does that mean? We have to face the dark together.  If we know the outcome, where's the risk?" He chuckled to himself. "Every road to heaven leads through hell, and all that."

"Goddamnit! No more of your jokes, Bodie. There's a line I don't want to cross. We live in the middle of a war zone and I want a refuge."

Bodie frowned in desperate concentration. "Oh, I see what your sayin', Ray." He spoke slowly, haltingly. "And if I were someone else or you were someone else, you'd be right. But we're not anybody else, we're us." He paused. "And we are the way we are. No use pretending any different. If you'd get off your high-horse and come back down to earth, you'd see that."

Doyle was stubbornly silent, temper fraying badly again. Like an out-of-sync refrain, in his mind he heard Bodie's voice telling him 'you're so pure, detached'. For a moment, it made a surreal kind of sense, the way a Dali painting of dripping alarm clocks and trees with faces did. But he had never liked Dali much, and he was not going to be made a fool of by someone who didn't know the meaning of pure.

"I see it fine, Bodie. What happens next? Shall we go kill somebody for the hell of it? Or shall we get our kicks from thumping each other instead?"

Bodie listened, head lowered, eyes flashing. He took his jacket off, draped it over the back of the sofa with a flourish. He cracked his knuckles. "Anything you say."

"Don't push your luck."

Bodie gave him a shove. "Go on, hit me."

"You're crazy," Doyle said, gritting his teeth. "We will not do this."

"Oh, you only hit strangers as well."

Doyle hit him.

Bodie's head jerked back, he staggered under the force of the blow, somehow managing to stay on his feet, but Doyle was already there, following through by driving his fist into his stomach.

Bodie doubled over.

Aghast, Doyle watched as he fell. Time crawled past, so he saw the whole thing as a series of individual motions. The thud as Bodie's knees hit the floor brought him back to reality.

"Sorry," he said, crossing the small space that separated them, trying to help him up.  "I'm sorry—"

"You're not," Bodie said, "the least bit sorry." He pushed Doyle's arm away and straightened. His eyes gleamed like polished blue stones, and his teeth bared in a parody of a smile.

Doyle took a step back. Not fast enough.

Bodie's hand shot out and he was flying backwards. The world exploded around him and went black.

He came to a few seconds later to find Bodie staring down at him with a bewildered expression.

With one hand Doyle wiped the blood trickling from his mouth. He propped himself up on his elbow.

Bodie knelt beside him. He put his hands on Doyle's shoulders, seemed about to say something, instead kissed him softly, licking away the blood. He slid an arm under Doyle's back to support him and kissed his way down to the opening of his collar, undid the first button on his shirt.

"Stop it," Doyle said. "Leave me alone."

Bodie got to his knees and held out his hand. Doyle accepted the offered hand and let Bodie help him to his feet, but he refused any further assistance.

His gaze wandered frantically around the sitting-room, so clean and orderly these days he sometimes thought he was in the wrong flat. The bookshelves, the stereo rack, the battered sofa, all seemed out of place, crammed into a space too small for them. They didn't fit in, or maybe it was the room that no longer fit together right as if the corners where wall joined wall had been built askew.

Bodie's arms slid around his waist from behind, his breath ruffled through Doyle's hair. "Come to bed?"

"What for?" Doyle said. "Won't change a damn thing. If I want to get laid, no problem, I'll find myself a bird. There's other things in life harder to get than sex." Like pride and sanity and self-respect, he thought.

A warm mouth at the base of his neck sent a tingle up his spine and fingertips brushed across his nipples.

"Please?" Bodie whispered, kissing softly down his neck. Doyle squirmed, trying to combat the urge to tilt his head to the side.

"I asked you, what for?" His voice faltered, he knew he was treading shaky ground, but he had to say it, "If I thought you loved me, it would be different."

"Ah." Bodie released him. "So the magic word means more to you than I do."

"It's not just a word, Bodie. Words mean something, you know."

"You that scared, Ray? Got to have all your feelings in nice neat packets. Boxed, labelled, categorised, identified. Like a blood sample."

Bodie began to pace, back and forth. "You're not in love with me. You think I don't know what goes on in that convoluted brain of yours? I'm someone to keep you from bein' lonely, company on those long, dark nights—"

"You're wrong," Doyle interrupted. "It's more than that—"

"Really?" Bodie turned, advanced on him. Doyle would have backed away, but Bodie grabbed his wrists and jerked him close, kissed him hard. "This," he said, "this is what you love," and his mouth clamped on Doyle's again.

Doyle swayed against him, his eyes falling shut. The world was wobbled crazily, fracturing like the coloured rocks of a kaleidoscope. His arms went around Bodie's neck, and his body arched to meet Bodie's, straining to press through the solidity of bone and muscle.

"Yeah," Bodie said and kissed him again with a savagery and completeness that wiped all remaining thought from his mind.

Then Bodie's mouth was on his throat and Bodie's hand was slipping inside the waistband of his jeans, searching for his cock, and finding it pulsing along his thigh, stroking with fingertips as best he could through the constricting fabric, murmuring all the while, "Beautiful, you're so beautiful, Ray—"

Floating, falling, his lips parted under Bodie's, and he surrendered, his very essence rising out of his body to obey the whispered command.

Until Bodie let go of him.

Doyle felt like the breath had been knocked from him.

Bodie smoothed his hair, walked away and picked up his glass, drained it with a single swallow. "You see, Ray, it's nothing more than lust, pure and simple," he said conversationally. "I can turn you on and turn you off like a light switch."

The cool, stainless voice seemed to flay the skin from his heart, delicate and thorough as a fishknife.

"It's a shame, a damn shame, but you're at the mercy of your hormones," Bodie added, "Rather humorous, really, only I seem to have missed the punch line."

Doyle took half-a-dozen deep breaths, his temples throbbing as if to burst. "You better get the hell away from me, then, before I lose control and start foaming at the mouth.

Bodie nodded and picked up his jacket. "Yeah, why not. I suppose it doesn't matter you never made any promises, did you?"

"What're you talking about?"

"Nothing. Forget it."

"Oh, right, like it matters to you. When I'm the one runnin' after you all the time, why do I need to make promises?"

"Have it your own way," said Bodie. "I'm goin' home. I don't need this, Doyle, I don't need your fairy-tale world, and I don't need you."

Doyle stood rooted as Bodie walked to the door, in a paralysis of emotion—where had the hot flood of feeling gone?—yet he felt as if he were floating still, disconnected from time and space. The door swung slowly open—abandon hope, all ye who enter here—and he saw the corridor beyond, the green fleur-de-lis wall paper, the wooden landing flecked with dust, and he was adrift, dizzy with vertigo. He took a step forward, despising himself even as he opened his mouth to speak. "Wait," he said.

Hand still on the doorknob, Bodie halted. He looked long and imploringly at the ceiling before turning round. "Well?"

Doyle only stared at him.

"Damn you—" Bodie slammed the door.

Slowly, he came back to Doyle and pulled him close. "What the hell am I going to do with you?"

"Nothing," Doyle said into his shoulder, "I'm not sure. I can't take much more of this, Bodie, you're driving me nuts."

Bodie tipped his chin back to look down at him. "Your eyes get huge and soft when you're being earnest, don't get angry again, I know you're serious. I wish I wish I was like you." He ran a finger down Doyle's jaw.

Doyle winced as he touched a tender spot. Goin' to have a hell of a bruise there tomorrow, he thought.

"You're hurt," Bodie said, wonderingly, "I did that," his voice mixing equal parts pride and astonishment.

"Ow, stop it," Doyle snapped. "Haven't you done enough for one night, goddammit?" His head ached, his jaw ached, but mainly his heart ached with the dull thud of lost hope.

"I'll make it up to you."

"For godsakes, not now."

"Please, let me—" Bodie tugged his clothes loose, making little noises of delight over his body as if seeing it for the first time.

"Sweet," a whisper close to his ear, as he felt Bodie fumbling with his own shirt, "I want you more than anything, you know that."

"Bodie—"

"I mean it." The fingers on Doyle's back trembled. "Don't listen to me when I say otherwise. I want you so much I'd kill for you."

Doyle's protests faded into nothing. "Aw, shit," he said inelegantly, and sniffed. "I wish you wouldn't say things like that, Bodie, gives me the creeps."

Having got it free, Bodie tossed his shirt aside. "It'll be all right, you'll see, I promise," he said. He took Doyle's face in his hands and forced him to meet his gaze. "You believe me?"

Doyle looked into his eyes, and was snared by the affection, the adoration, the utter attachment mirrored there. "Yeah, I believe you," he said. "I must be as crazy as you are."

 

 

XXV.

ON THE EVENING of the reception Doyle leant on the counter in an exclusive men's clothing shop, the only place still open, waiting as the salesman wrapped his package for him. Despite the thorough briefing three days earlier, he had quite forgot the event until Cowley informed him sharply that he had better be prepared with more suitable attire within the hour. So here he was, spending an exorbitant amount of hard-earned cash on a tie of all things, he thought, glumly eyeing the sign that said all sales final. But he didn't really mind. He liked owning ties well enough, he just didn't like wearing them.

Thirty minutes later he was in the CI5 locker room, changed, shaved, and struggling to tie the damn thing without choking himself. You'd think after all these years, he'd have got the hang of it by now. He started over, carefully watching himself, but the mirror-image confused him, so he closed his eyes and did it from memory. He finally managed it to his satisfaction and was about to close up his locker, when he heard the door open.

Bodie came up behind him and fixed his reflection with a lecherous grin. "You look ravishing, mate. What's the occasion?"

Doyle tugged at the tie. Bloody things were always too tight no matter how loosely he knotted them. "Diplomatic reception. The old man reckons Harris' cronies are usin' this sort of thing as camouflage for their bribery operation."

"Don't you need a tux?'

Doyle flashed a press pass. "Nah, doin' me cub reporter bit again, aren't I? They know Cowley's face, and they'll be tryin to hide whatever from him, meanwhile I can nose about, innocent as a lamb."

"Wolf in sheep's clothing." Bodie tsked. "Your tie's crooked."

"Do wonders for a fella's confidence, you do," Doyle said. He peered into the mirror, pulled at his hair. "Well, it's too late to fix it now."

"Here, let me."

Doyle sighed and tilted his head to let Bodie get at the tie. He felt a tiny jerk as the knot came loose. "So what're you doin' tonight?" he asked.

"Oh, this and that," Bodie said vaguely.   "Clear up some reports, you know. That lady from the bank was in this afternoon, in a state, she was. Couldn't get anything done."

He tightened the new knot on Doyle's tie, patted it with a satisfied grunt. His lashes lifted and their eyes met for the space of heartbeat, then Bodie closed the gap between them, bent his forehead to Doyle's. "Not goin' to forget about me, are you?"

"In five hours? Nah," Doyle said. He grinned. "Give me somethin' to remember you by?" he suggested. "In case I get amnesia."

He ducked under Bodie's arm and sauntered to the end of the lockers, out of sight of the door. He peeked round the corner, and gave his best come-hither look.

Bodie was after him in a second, tickling him unmercifully.

"Ooof," as Doyle jabbed him with his elbow, "You're a bony little sod, ouch," another jab, "Leave off; what're you tryin' to do to me?"

"Was tryin' to kiss you," Doyle said with great dignity, "But now I think I won't."

"Capricious bugger," Bodie said, "Always tormentin' me, you are," his hands slipped inside Doyle's jacket, "C'mon, kiss me anyway." He batted his eyelashes prettily.

Doyle obliged.

Though moments later, he was hard pressed to say who was kissing who, he put aside such petty concerns and melted bonelessly into Bodie's body.

At the sound of footsteps squeaking in the hall, he tore himself away. "Got to go, mate, see you later," and he dashed off before Bodie could reply. But there was no one in the corridor, whoever it was must've just been passing by. He grinned to himself, and went off to meet Cowley.

The evening was a complete bore. The glasses he had to wear warped the ballroom into an out-of-focus blur, like he was looking through a fishbowl, but they gave him the right touch of intellectual snobbery he needed to carry off the assigned role of political analyst for a small conservative magazine.

He went about earnestly asking questions, surrounded by a whirl of glitter and glasses and music, people talking, laughing, dancing, the light from a dozen immense chandeliers fracturing on the highly polished floors. He found out everything he never wanted to know about current Anglo-French relations, listened to several mini-lectures on what was wrong with the EEC, politely fended off the advances of an equally bored junior secretary's wife. Very well-preserved for her age, she was, but years ago Doyle had barely escaped with his head from a previous such entanglement and he wasn't about to go borrowing trouble. But he detected no secret conversations, overheard no suspicious whisperings.

What a waste of time.

As agreed, he left fifteen minutes after he saw Cowley depart. Making sure he wasn't followed, he walked over to the next street where a red car was waiting and climbed in the passenger seat. "Sony to disappoint you. Nothing," he said, "nothing at all."

Cowley chuckled softly. "Oh, I'm not disappointed. On the contrary, it has been a most productive evening."

Doyle gave him a sharp look. Even in the dark, he could see that the old man was positively beaming with self-satisfaction: that could only mean one thing: he'd been had. Two-timing, devious—He should be used to it by now. "You set me up as a decoy, didn't you?"

"Very astute, 4/5, though I don't care for your tone of voice."

"Why?"

"I needed you on your toes to divert suspicion from myself. It worked admirably," Cowley replied. He glanced in the rear view mirror as they pulled up at a red light. "You had them nervous with all your questions, I assure you. After they dispatched the charming Mrs. Moore to engage your attention, Roberts made me an offer. Which I accepted, naturally." He rubbed his hands in gleeful anticipation; the light changed and he took the steering wheel again, eased the Rover through a left turn and into a smooth acceleration. "In a few weeks I'll have the name of every man in that organisation."

"Where are you going? My car's at HQ," Doyle said, then turned and peered through the rear window. "Got a tail?"

'If so, he's gone now." Cowley made another turn and the car swung back in the direction of the office. He chuckled to himself again.  "A clean sweep. Impressive."

As Cowley appeared to be speaking to himself, Doyle said nothing and looked out the window. The drive through night-quiet streets was taking forever. Could say one thing for Bodie's driving, it got you where you wanted to go quick.

He stole a glance at Cowley, a neat, dapper figure in the crisp navy suit he wore like a uniform, back ramrod straight as he concentrated on manoeuvring the car into the side entrance of the carpark.

"Any word on the robberies?" Doyle asked him.

"The young lady from the bank was round today to give her statement," Cowley said. He pulled up next to the security gate, left the car idling. "She recognised the voice of one of the men."

"The caretaker in charge of the travelling exhibit," Doyle said with calm certainty. "He disappeared shortly after the last raid."

"We'll find him. Your evidence combined with hers will do the rest," Cowley said, a burr of approval warming his voice. "Yes, the Minister will be pleased."

The Minister?

"You've done well, Doyle, very well indeed, particularly in light of your previous level of distraction."

High praise from Cowley, effusive even. It made him nervous.

Cowley switched off the motor. "Your probation is nearly up."

"I remember."

There was a pause while Cowley stared off through the windscreen, fingers tapping at the steering wheel.

"We don't say these kind of things enough, Doyle, there's never time or opportunity. I know we've had our altercations, but still and all you have the soundest judgement of any of my men, and the most finely balanced sense of compassion. I need those qualities, and I need you." His head turned towards Doyle, but it was too dark to make out his expression. "I want to know: are you going to make it?"

Even though he knew he was being manipulated by an expert, Doyle was taken back to the day he'd received his acceptance into the police force and a lump formed in his throat.  "I'll make it."

Cowley sighed. "Good," he said briskly, "I may as well tell you now, then. In six weeks there will begin an exhaustive review of CI5's performance. Everything in my department will be evaluated, including each of the agents.

Doyle swallowed. "How long have you known about this?"

"The Minister warned me last spring that the possibility existed. I received confirmation a few weeks ago." He pursed his lips thoughtfully. "It's time I put my own house in order."

Suddenly it all fell into place. The wolf of budget cuts was at CI5's door, and Cowley had to justify his existence to some high-ranking bureaucrat. Theoretically their brief had no expiration, but Doyle had seen entire departments go with a single stroke of the pen.   The successful completion of a major op would be a mighty weapon against that pen. "I won't let you down, sir."

"Good lad. Perhaps I've been remiss in not telling you before," Cowley went on, "but I wanted you to work things out on your own account, not from some misguided sense of loyalty."

Doyle opened his mouth to dispute that, but Cowley waved him to silence. "No, no, hear me out. Certainly I value loyalty, don't mistake me. But an agent's first loyalty has to be to the job itself, not to me, nor to this organisation," he paused, perhaps for a breath, "nor to his fellow agents."

Doyle's uneasiness returned.  "Yes, sir."

He opened the door as Cowley started the car up. "One more thing," Cowley reached into the back seat, pulled out a ring-bound book and handed it over, "Give this to Bodie when you see him. And tell him he can have a day's leave tomorrow."

Doyle hardly glanced at the book, his mind clicking away, adding up a series of till now unrelated facts, a terrible certainty forming in his mind. A lightning mental review of Cowley's behaviour towards him all summer, the probing glances, the desk-bound tasks, the kid-glove handling. He looked at the book he held. Recently-filed weapon patents. Meant nothing to him, one of Bodie's projects. They hadn't worked closely together in months. The fact of separate assignments removed all doubt. He pulled the car door shut. "How long?" he demanded. "How long have you known?"

"I didn't."

"Until now," Doyle said dully. He felt as transparent as the crystal goblet he'd drunk from at the embassy.

"You realise of course, the repercussions should either of you fail the security check."

Doyle didn't reply.

Cowley cleared his throat. "The European banking conference has been pushed back a week; I'll want the pair of you on ready, now that this other business is winding down. You're free until then." Cowley smiled faintly. "Oh, and Doyle—"

"Sir?"

"Be careful."

Doyle said goodnight and got out of the car, watched it drive off.

Cowley knew.

Had probably known all along, the sniffy old bastard, had been waiting to see if it would blow over.

But why hadn't Cowley confronted them? He could have done so at any time, had chosen not to.  Doyle shook his head in wry gratitude.  He'd underestimated the old man again, he should know better.

Chewing on his lip, he pulled out his car keys, put them away. He would walk to Bodie's flat; it was less than a mile and he could use the fresh air after that stuffy reception.

Doyle slipped quietly up the outer stairs, and let himself in without bothering to knock. It had gone two after all, he didn't want to wake Bodie if he was asleep.

The flat was dark, so he stood in the doorway to let his eyes adjust. Soon he was able to make out the shapes of the furniture and he saw the bedroom door open. He started towards it, when a low moan froze him where he stood.

That didn't sound like Bodie. In fact, it didn't sound like a man at all.

His heart thumped noisily inside his chest. Despite himself, he strained to make out the muffled noises coming from the other room, listening with the courage of the unobserved.

So Bodie was keeping up with his girlfriends. He shouldn't be surprised; he had never known him not to.

But he was surprised. It never occurred to him after all the things Bodie had said that there would ever be anyone else again.

He thought perhaps he should feel betrayed, angry. He didn't understand why he should feel so lost. He concentrated on the bare white wall opposite him, trying to get his bearings.

"—you always think it'll happen to someone else."

Doyle recognised the voice. The woman from the bank. Her beautiful, frightened face floated through his confusion. "—why do you do it?"

"Someone's got to."

"Why?"

"So it doesn't get any worse. It won't get any better, but it could get worse."

Doyle drew back in the shadows, not knowing who he envied more, Bodie or the girl; trust Bodie, snap his fingers and a beautiful woman was in his arms and his bed; or the discovery that Bodie's magic wasn't exclusively for him, Doyle; he felt a deep bruising pain at the thought.

"All the violence, the fighting and killing, doesn't it get to you after a while?"

That was the wrong thing to say, love, Doyle thought. Bodie bristled at the slightest question there might be anything wrong with his chosen profession.

"Does it matter?" Bodie said.

"It has to matter. Doesn't it? After you kill enough people, maybe life doesn't mean the same thing to you that it does to other people."

"Maybe not," Bodie replied, a hard, defensive edge to his voice.  Doyle inched backwards towards the door.

"Don't be angry, Bodie. I just want to know why."

Doyle halted his retreat. He wanted to know, too. Bodie didn't give a toss about enforcing justice, or punishing criminals or protecting England. And as for money, well, that wasn't it either, no matter what Bodie said, or he certainly wouldn't be working for CI5.

"It's my job, that's all," Bodie said with flat finality.

Just a job. He felt a sharp pain in his chest, as a secret conviction, that underneath it all Bodie had core of honour, flared up and died. Well, he should've known better.

"I think I see," her voice said. "Any job requires certain skills; yours does, too. Like running, fighting and shooting. So, it's what you happen to be good at—a talent?"

"Yeah. Very good," he heard Bodie say.

Doyle snorted. Was anyone that naive? Brilliant insight. Somehow he couldn't bring himself to think of killing as a talent, but of course Bodie would see it that way. He'd been a mercenary, after all. That was something Doyle could never forget; not really, he'd go along for awhile, get comfortable, then Bodie would provide a forcible reminder of his former profession. Soldier of fortune. Fancy name for a bunch of hired killers. So that's all CI5 was to Bodie; another army, another mob that paid him to use his undeniable tactical abilities and his love of dangerous work; the field of operations had shifted, that was all.

Bedsprings creaked. "All I can do is type, really. And I do a bit of painting in my off hours. Not that it's worth anything."

Doyle flinched in unwilling sympathy, remembering his own frustrated ambitions.

Bodie's reply was indistinct.

"At least in your work you're doing something important While all I could do was stand around,—oh, all that blood everywhere—"

There was some more shuffling around, and Doyle heard the unmistakeable sound of a sob.

"There, there," Bodie said with infinite gentleness. "It's all right, don't cry."

She cried harder.

"Shh...I'm here, aren't I? I'll take care of you. I won't leave you alone.  I promise."

Promise? The room seemed to somersault around him as Doyle heard the echo of that word in his mind, Bodie's deep voice repeating over and over. I'll never leave you.'

He didn't know how long he had stood there when the voice became real, coming from the other room.

"Don't let's talk any more, love," Bodie murmured.

That was fine with Doyle, he'd heard enough. He slapped the patent-book down on the table and headed for the door.

The room flared into light as he reached for the heavy glass doorknob, and he stared at the tiny sparkles trapped inside before turning round.

Bodie stood a few feet away, cool, poised, skin gleaming whitely except for the dark patches at armpit and groin. The least he could have done, thought Doyle savagely, is put on his bathrobe.

"And what are you doing here?" He spoke harshly, but Doyle would have sworn his eyes were dancing.

Doyle couldn't think of anything to say. After a moment he looked away. "I'm not," he said. "Not for long, that is." He opened the door.

Bodie winked. "Good," he said loudly. "Why don't you stay?" he added in an undertone.

Doyle shook his head in disgust "No. I don't think I could stand it."

He turned to leave, but Bodie caught his arm and pulled him against his chest. "Aww, you're not cross, are you?" he whispered into Doyle's ear. "I can get rid of her, if you like."

"Let me go, Bodie," Doyle said.

Bodie stepped back instantly, but took Doyle's face in his hands and kissed him.

His heart shuddered painfully, shot a streak of helpless excitement through his groin as Bodie's mouth parted against his. His lips were still warm, softened from kissing whatever her name was, and he reeked of her perfume and his own sweat; for a second Doyle thought he could even taste her before cold sanity returned like a blast from a winter wind. He elbowed Bodie aside. "Cowley's on to us, mate, thought you'd like to know," he said, and went down the steps without another word.

Outside, he took off in the direction of his flat, but after walking a few blocks he changed his mind and headed for one of the older pubs in the area, a place he knew he would not be recognised.

He tossed back three shots of scotch in quick succession, ignoring the dubious gaze of the bartender, and ordered a fourth.  The bar was smoky and crowded; a random display of arms waving coins and pound notes, plucking at hastily made drinks over and around his head. All the tables were full, so he took his drink and wormed his way to the back wall where he stood and stared moodily at the dance floor.

The dim lights hid the faces of the dancers from him, they were no more than a blur of shapes and colours swirling to the music. The numbing warmth of alcohol wound its way through his stomach, pleasant at first, but gradually combining with the heat of too many bodies jostling each other until he felt stifled. He loosened his tie.

"—doesn't seem right for a fellow like you," a soft voice said close to his ear.

"Eh?" He looked around for the owner of the voice and found himself looking into wide blue eyes that twinkled up at him.

"I said, you don't look like the wallflower type." She smiled prettily, her face a little flushed from the heat and from drinking.

"No, I'm not," he agreed. He emptied his glass. "Let me buy you a drink." He cupped her elbow and piloted them back to the bar, using his other elbow to stake a claim on two stools at the corner.

"What'll you have?" he asked, motioning the bartender to refill his own glass.

"Just some more of this brandy, please."

She flashed him another smile, and he smiled back, idly noting the mascara smeared around the corner of one eye, the fine sheen of sweat across the bridge of her nose. Well, it was late. In his mind, he altered her face until he saw her as she must have looked when she set out for the evening, cool, porcelain perfection. He ordered another scotch.

"So, um, do you come here often?" he said, wincing at the trite expression. Oh, he'd really lost his touch, he had.

She shook her head. "No, first time. You?"

"No." He hadn't felt so awkward since he was fifteen. "You work?"

A quick nod.

"What do you do?"

"I'm a secretary."

"Isn't everyone?"

"What is that supposed to mean?"

Nice, really nice, you're doin' a great job, Ray, keep it up. "Nothing," he said hastily. "Just tha's what I do, too." He grinned. That was better. It was like riding a bicycle, once you learned to keep your balance, you never really forgot, did you?

She grinned back, and he relaxed, and they talked easily after that, about nothing important. When it came to comparing notes on secretarial work, he let her do most of the talking, although he had a few stories himself that he'd heard around the office. He rather enjoyed the easy give and take, even if it was mainly lies on his part.

Time slipped by painlessly, until he signalled to the bartender for another drink and the man shook his head. He didn't understand. He hadn't had that much to drink. "I'm fine," he insisted. "Show you." He took hold of the bar rail and pulled himself to his feet, swaying a little with the music, then released the rail with a flourish.

The bartender was not impressed.

Doyle spread his palms upwards. "Jus' one more," he told the bartender, "an' then I'll go. Promise."

Promise. Bodie's voice slid into his mind, mocking him.   No one but you'.

"Ray? Is something wrong, Ray?"

He looked down. He didn't remember putting his arm around her shoulders. She felt warm and delicate under the thin polyester of her blouse. Might even take her home. That'd show that arrogant bastard. Sauce for the goose was sauce for the other goose. He giggled and reached for his glass but missed it, nearly knocking it over. Let's see, motor coordination gone, slurring of speech. "Would ask you to dance—" he frowned, concentrating hard to remember her name— "Diane, but 'm not exactly light on me feet at the moment."

'That's all right with me," she said, blushing a bit, and nestled closer to him.

Whether by accident or design, the movement caused his hand to brush across her breast, and after a moment's hesitation, he covered it with his hand and squeezed gently.

He'd almost forgot what a woman felt like, but his body hadn't, leaping into arousal the moment he touched her. He revelled in the softness of it, fingertips cautiously exploring the curve into her armpit as if he'd never done this before.

She sighed audibly and wriggled against him.

Their eyes met for a second, then she lowered her lashes, obviously embarrassed. Reluctantly, he took his hand from her breast, and hugged her closer in an unconsciously protective gesture. "Hey," he whispered, "Ok, love?"

She tilted her head back to look at him, blue eyes wide and uncertain, and he thought he had never seen anything so vulnerable and appealing in his life.

He bent to kiss the upturned face, lightly at first, then more firmly, pressing his mouth hard against the soft, feminine lips, when he felt them tremble under his.

Abruptly he broke the kiss. "Time to go," he said.

She began to rise, but his hand bore her back down onto the stool.

"No," he said, "'m goin' home." Her eyes widened in surprise, and disappointment.

His heart ached for her, but better to let her down now than later, he thought. "Got to, don't y'see? Can't do this. I can't."

"You married or something?" she guessed.

"Or something," he mumbled. "Yeah, that's it, two kids, you know. Oh, shit, I'm sorry—"

"So am I, Ray. So am I." She turned her back to him, and he stood there a moment, knees shaking with relief and desire, then grabbed his jacket from the stool and wove his way out of the pub.

The air outside was only marginally cooler than inside the bar, weighted down with impending rain. It clung to his skin, and plastered his curls to his forehead, but he didn't notice. He looked around, trying to remember which direction his flat was. He never had got used to moving house two or three times a year, and once he'd gone to the wrong building, indignantly demanded to be let in when his key didn't work. Cowley had raked him over the coals for that one.

He remembered then and started walking, eyes fixed on the pavement.  Cars whizzed by, but he ignored them, his mind suddenly empty of everything but a dull, sodden loathing for himself and Bodie, both. He was no better than Bodie, lying to that girl, leading her on that way.

But he wished he could have gone through with it, he desperately needed something normal and sane, but now less than ever did he feel able to stomach the casual one night stands he used to pursue when he was in between girlfriends. He had not sunk so far as to use someone like that.

The heat hit him. Christ, he was sweating all over his favourite shirt. Clumsily, he pulled his tie loose and stuffed it into his jacket pocket, then took the jacket off and slung it over his shoulder.

He stumbled over a crack in the pavement, nearly fell, catching himself just in time. Must be drunker than he thought.

The distant wail of a siren drifted to his ears, carried through the air like a lament, and in the darkness the sound wove a fantasy around him of lovely red hair spread across Bodie's pillow. He tried to ignore the sensations and images flooding his mind, and he wished for moment he had stayed, and then he was ashamed of that wish.

Forget it, he told himself, forget the whole thing.

Take her out and interrogate her over dinner' he heard himself saying. When was that? Never mind.

He chuckled. Never mind, son, she'll see through him in time. They all did.

He trudged on towards his flat.

 

XXVI.

 

BODIE WAS WAITING, lounging against the front door when he arrived.

"Where've you been?" he asked lightly, but his expression was grim.

"Can't tell.  'S a secret."

"I was worried about you."

Doyle went off into a fit of giggles. He fumbled around in his pocket, managing to spill a handful of change onto the pavement before fishing out the latch key.

"I went to a bar an' picked up a girl—" The key wouldn't go into the door properly. He twisted hard. It jammed.

Bodie's hand closed over his. "Here; let me."

Doyle jerked away as if he'd been scorched, but he stood back and let Bodie open the door. "And?" Bodie prompted.

"Huh?"

"The girl you picked up?"

"Oh, her." Doyle put a comradely hand on Bodie's shoulder. "Well, I'll tell you, mate," he lowered his voice and glanced over his shoulder, "I was too drunk, so I dropped her." Immediately, he was seized by another paroxysm of giggling, so he didn't much mind Bodie shoving him towards the stairs and following him all the way up.

Inside the door, he felt around for the light switch, tossed the too-warm jacket aside, then collapsed into an armchair and grinned up at Bodie. "You're not laughing," he accused. "I thought it was very funny." He would have gone off again, but Bodie grabbed his wrist and yanked him to his feet.

"What'd you do," he said, softly menacing, "Go to her place?"

Doyle glared at him, all laughter fled; Bodie glared back, and they stood like that, their eyes locked in open warfare.

Until Doyle freed himself with a quick twist. "Bodie," he said, careful not to slur the words, "Fuck off."

And went into the kitchen.

Bodie followed him.

"Tell me the truth," he said.

"There's nothing to tell." Doyle opened a cabinet and searched around for a clean glass. When he couldn't find one, he snatched a smudged one from the pile in the sink. "Not that it's any of your lookout."

Bodie pulled a chair from the table and flipped it around, straddling it.  "I don't think—"

"You don't think; got that right," Doyle cut in.

With obvious patience, Bodie continued, "I don't think you ought to be doin' that. Goin' off with strange women. I don't like it."

"Oh, he doesn't like it." Doyle opened another cabinet, then a third. "Where's the—can't find nothing' around here when I want—it here it is." He extracted a bottle of sherry from the back of the shelf. "And what about you? What about what's-her-name?"

Bodie opened his mouth and closed it again.

"Ah, ha, got you there, don't I?" Doyle said. He poured himself a drink with unsteady hands.

"That was different," Bodie said.

Doyle stared at him. "You know, you're incredible. Plain fucking incredible." He went back to the sitting room.

Bodie was right behind him, hands burning into his shoulders as he turned Doyle round. "What's the matter with you? You jealous or something?"

Doyle waved his hand impatiently.

A delighted grin spread across Bodie's face. "Well, who'd have thought it?"

Doyle slipped from his grasp, sloshing a little of the sherry on the carpet. He watched the spreading stain with detached interest before looking up at Bodie. "You got it all wrong, sunshine," he said with careful precision. "I'm not jealous."

Bodie hadn't moved at all, hands suspended in mid-air, but now he lowered his arms to his side. "Too much to hope for, I reckon."

Doyle ignored this, intent on his point. "I don't care who you fuck, mate, I just don' like you lyin' to 'm. That's all."

"What're you talkin' about?"

A splattering of raindrops hit the window. "You're using her, the way you use me."

"You're wrong," Bodie said softly.

Doyle didn't bother to acknowledge him, "Why I ever expected any better, I don't know, I'm as crazy as you are. I should remember, I'm the world's biggest sucker, even my girlfriends knew it.  It's no different."

"I'm not one of your girlfriends," Bodie snapped. "I  trust you, they didn't."

"Couldn't prove it by me," Doyle said. He took a sip of his drink, made a face. Must've got hold of the cooking sherry.

Bodie shifted his feet. He shoved his hands in his pockets, and glanced at the window. The rain had become a steady drumming sound. "I let you fuck me."

Doyle snorted.  "So did they."

"Be fair, it's a little different."

"Is it?"

Bodie rolled his eyes. "Right," he said. He took his hands out of his pockets and put them on his hips. "And what about your Ann, then? Real faith, she had, wouldn't even stop to let you explain."

"Ann was all right," Doyle said stiffly. "Ann. Ann. Ann. Why'd'you have to bring Ann up? Ann was pure and true and that's just what you didn't like."

"She walked out on you."

"I don't blame her. I wish to God I'd followed her right out of this lousy life, maybe I'd have something to believe in."

Bodie was silent for several seconds. "You can believe in me," he said at last.

Doyle laughed. "Ann was all right," he repeated. At least she had been honest with him. 'That bird, what's she goin' to do when she finds out how it is with you?"

Bodie's eyes widened, his chin lifted defiantly. "What's it to you, anyway?"

After another swig from the glass, Doyle set it down. He didn't want any more. "Nothing."

He launched himself at the bedroom. Christ, was he ever going to have a hangover in the morning. He ran into Bodie at the doorway.

"She was hurt. I made her feel better. That's all."

"Yeah, sure."

"Oh, yeah, what was I supposed to do? You tell me."

Doyle just looked at him.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. Should've told her, hey babe, it's not my problem, I'd like to help you, breaks my heart, really, but I can't, you might misunderstand. But if it's any comfort, I'm goin' to go home and feel guilty on your behalf. Hope that's good enough, 'cause it's all you're gonna get."

"Yeah, and what's she goin' to do tomorrow night, and the next, when she's all by herself feelin' just as bad, worse, 'cause you're not there?"

Bodie shrugged.

"Don't you care?"

"Not when I might be dead tomorrow night."

Doyle shook his head. It was not so much that Bodie lied as there was no truth to tell. "Doesn't matter. Cowley's rung our number and it's up. So you can prey on all the unsuspecting females you like and I can, too. How's that for fair?"

"I don't care what Cowley knows."

"Not what you said before."

"You didn't believe that, did you?"

"Oh, you lied about that as well."

Bodie stared at him in mute appeal.

"What, had to preserve the Mr. Tough Guy image, was it? Yeah, why not," Doyle said to himself. "Get lost, Bodie."

"So you can get back to your bird?"

Doyle shook his head. "Any case," he waved his hand dismissively, "I didn't go home with her, so you can rest easy."

"Oh, sure," Bodie said.

"You don't understand. You couldn't possibly understand, not if you spent a million years trying. It's beyond you, isn't it, not to take advantage of someone, just a job."

"Oh, that's right, I forgot. The likes of me couldn't possibly understand your idealistic notions. I understand, all right, you want to feel superiour, Doyle, you want to pretend it's all a quixotic crusade against evil with yourself as the knight errant when it's just mopping up other people's messes." His voice had a remnant of the familiar bland arrogance, but beneath the words Doyle could hear violence fighting its way to the surface, like the snick of a gun being cocked.

"Thought you said I was so pure?"

Bodie clenched his fists. "We're not talking about the same thing."

Got you again, Doyle thought. Two for me. He giggled.

"You're no different," Bodie growled. "You thrive on it, all of it, the blood, the killing, the violence. All of it."

"Yeah," Doyle said, "So what?"

"You can't be something you're not."

"That's right," Doyle agreed. "And neither can you. And I'm one thing and you're another."

"What is it you want?" Bodie said. 'Tell me."

"I want you to leave."

"No, you don't."

"You're crazy," Doyle said coldly.

"That's how I know I'm alive."

Doyle made an inarticulate growl of disgust, and started to turn away.

Swift as a panther, Bodie pounced, locking his arms around Doyle's back.

Doyle wheezed and gasped into his shoulder. Then the pressure relaxed and he could breathe again. "Bastard," he managed, and sagged against Bodie, panting heavily.

The room spiralled into a sickening blur of light as he was lifted off his feet and carted to the bedroom.

Too drunk and dizzy to offer much resistance, he lay passively as Bodie dragged his clothes off and forced him down on his back.

Then Bodie was gone, returning a moment later, naked and warm, pulling Doyle up against his chest, twisting his arms up behind him.

"Cut it out," Doyle said, but his voice was too slurry to convey any threat.

"No," Bodie said. His mouth descended, lingering over Doyle's, the barest of kisses, fading like a memory of childhood as he released Doyle's arms and pressed him down.

But even as Doyle was sighing in relief, there was a new sharper pain at his throat, switching to his neck. In his confused state, he took a few seconds to identify the cause as teeth, digging now into his arm. Jesus, Bodie was drawing blood. "Stop it, stop, goddammit—" Soft wetness replaced the teeth, a tongue trailed across his shoulders and chest, each spot first warm, then cold as it moved on.

Doyle gasped as Bodie's tongue brushed his nipple, zig-zagged down his belly. Underneath the haze of alcohol was a hard knot of anger at this cavalier treatment, but his mind was too blurry to focus the anger, his body too leaden and drowsy to obey the urge to punch Bodie in the jaw and throw him out.

Besides, Bodie's mouth felt wonderful, he could feel himself getting hard in spite of being so drunk, and he put the anger aside. Bodie's promises might be as worthless as drug addict's oath to reform, but he trusted Bodie's hands on his body absolutely. He'd get him for this tomorrow, he decided.

A tongue tip swirled softly up his cock, he lifted his hips and plunged into fiery wetness. He stopped thinking.

Just as he was getting close to the edge, the warm mouth left him, and Bodie's face appeared above him, a pale shape shadowed in the light from the sitting room.

He breathed in a faint familiar odor of sweat, tried to pull Bodie down to kiss him, but Bodie fended him off.

"You see," Bodie said, "You think too much. You think you know what you want, angelface, but you're wrong, all wrong."

He leant very near, so his mouth hovered centimetres away, and all thought driven from his mind, Doyle gazed up at him, mesmerised by the jewel-like brilliance of his eyes.

Bodie smiled, ineffably sweet.

In the softest voice, he said, "I'm going to fuck you like an animal."

Doyle's blood turned to iced water.

He knew instantly he could not fight, crippled by the memory of pounding himself into Bodie dry. His turn had come. He heard himself babbling, he was saying things that made no sense as Bodie threw him easily on his stomach, pinning his arms over his head, and casually, cruelly, as if it made no difference at all, pierced him to the heart.

At first he didn't feel anything, mercifully numbed by shock, but too soon, his shock wore off and a grinding ache began deep inside.

His moans were muffled by the pillow crushed to his face. In tempo to Bodie's thrusts, a small voice in his head chanted a litany of denial. He didn't believe it, he didn't believe this was happening, didn't believe the utter brutality of it. It was a dream, a nightmare conjured by a disordered mind. He lost track of time, of himself, everything disappearing into the pain searing up through his guts.

Deep inside the vicious pounding slowed, and ceased.

The knot of rage unwound and ripped through his veins, but no thought came to assist it, so he lay unable to move.

Jesus Christ, God almighty, he hurt.

Bodie rolled off him, and drew him into a close embrace, offering no sympathy, no apology, murmuring into his ear things that Doyle's stunned mind could not comprehend, and nuzzled his ear, stroking down his stomach and thighs with long sweeps of his hand, licking at his nipples.

He fought the arousal, grimly hanging on to humiliation and outrage, body rigid, fists clenched, but Bodie knew him too well by now for it to be any use.

When the seeking hands passed over his cock, they found him hard and aching, and as Bodie's fingers trailed feathery kisses up and down the shaft, he whimpered in spite of himself.

"That's it, Ray, let me hear you."

Doyle groaned as he felt Bodie's hands tighten and begin a slow insidious stroking, rising up each time to smear the wetness leaking from him across a smooth palm, pausing once, returning slicker than ever.

He cried out, louder than before, eyes wide open to the dark all around him and the sweetness building inside him.

"Sweetheart," Bodie whispered, "I love it when you can't keep quiet."

His thighs were spread and one leg lifted, hooked around Bodie's waist, and Bodie's cock slipped into him again, and out with slow measured thrusts, Bodie keeping up a relentless whispering all the while. "Feels good, doesn't it? I know it does."

Impossibly, Doyle felt himself get harder, his own cock swelling until he thought it would burst. Pain and pleasure blurred together, and Doyle no longer cared whether the fire he felt came from his guts or from his groin, only that Bodie was the cause.

Bodie insisted, ruthless, "but I want you to tell me, come on, say it, now, like you mean it."

Doyle struggled to form words. He couldn't think, his mind was gone. "Can't," he came out with at last.

'Tell me," Bodie insisted, voice taking on a desperate, pleading note, "Tell me you love me."

""No," Doyle said, then something broke inside his heart and he listened, horrified as his voice poured out the truth he hadn't wanted to know, "I love you, Bodie, I love you," saying it over and over, heard the echoing of his despair, then Bodie was kissing him, fiercely, speeding up the movements of his hands.

"Beautiful, you're mine now," he said. "Come on, give it to me, come with me—"

All the air left Doyle's lungs in one wild gasp as the last sliver of outraged self abandoned him. He thrust once into the tight, slick grip. And he was coming and coming and coming, all over Bodie's waiting hands, face pressed tight into Bodie's cheek, feeling the hot spurt of Bodie inside him, collapsing then into Bodie's waiting arms, and before the last tremor had quite passed, he was asleep.

 

 

 

XXVII.

 

IT WAS STILL DARK when he woke, his thoughts fuzzy and confused. Dawn glimmered in the window, and he watched the chill grey light trickle through the curtains under half-closed lids for a long while.

Finally he turned his head to gaze at the man sleeping beside him.

Smooth and unlined, like an effigy in a tomb, Bodie's face had an aura of unearthly peace undisturbed by dreams or nightmares.

Of its own accord his hand reached up to caress the marble cheek, but stopped short.

He slid out of the bed, carefully, lest he wake the sleeping dragon, picked his clothes from the floor and limped to the bathroom.

His backside felt like a mass of bruises, but when he inspected it, there was only a faint livid mark across one buttock.

He wet a cloth to clean himself. He washed the stickiness off his belly and genitals, dabbed gingerly between his buttocks. When he drew the cloth back, he saw it was stained with blood. He gritted his teeth and wiped away the rest of the dried blood and semen, rinsed the cloth, watching the red-tinged water drain away. He turned the tap off and looked up at himself. The face in the mirror had been sketched by Picasso. The eyes, the nose, the mouth reflected separately as if they were independent of one another. He squinted and the image scattered into a thousand pieces. Hangover, he assured himself. But no matter how many times he looked away and back, his self refused to coalesce in the mirror.

Giving up, he dressed hurriedly, went to the bedroom for his shoes, and filched Bodie's keys from his jacket. Bodie stirred, and mumbled something in his sleep. Doyle held his breath. Carrying the shoes, he crept out of the flat, silent as a wraith.

Bodie's car was parked down the street. He put on his shoes, got in, and sped off into the grey morning fog. He drove rapidly, wanting to put as much distance between himself and the city as possible, but once the blur of brown buildings had given way to rolling hills dotted by the occasional house, he slowed down, chose a side-road at random and turned, aimlessly following its twists and turns. When he had gone a way without seeing any houses or other cars, he pulled over, making sure the car was all the way off the road, and got out.

He hopped the fence and tramped down the moss-covered incline, walked on until he came to a cluster of oak trees sheltering a wide, grassy meadow beyond. Slowly, he eased himself down to the ground. It was still damp from last night's rain. He leant against a tree trunk, the bark poking into his back, and looked out across the meadow. The sun had cleared the horizon, gilting the grass with gold. Dewdrops sparkled across the surface like strewn topaz. In the distance, he could see sheep grazing. A clutch of sparrows chirped overhead.

Surrounded by the peacefulness of this place, he relaxed and his irrational panic subsided.

Mechanically he went over and over the events of the previous night. A warm wind rustled through the leaves and stirred the grass.

After a while he found he could think, but not feel. He was glad about that.

He couldn't believe he had been such a complete, utter prat as to fancy Bodie loved him. Well, he knew better now. It was the excitement Bodie craved, the intensity that lured him on. Served him right, for kidding himself. Bodie had told him, over and over, in all sorts of ways.

He pulled up a blade of grass and began to shred it with quick, furious jerks, then flung the pieces away. Yeah, that's all his stubborn faith in Bodie was, a shabby remnant of the dreams he used to have, a clutching at the last bedraggled illusions. He supposed he was angrier about that than anything else. He'd been living in a fantasy world and he had no one to blame but himself.

There he went again, putting rationalisations in the way of simple rage. What Bodie had done was unforgivable. If he had any guts at all, he'd go back and blow his brains out.

Coward, taunted a voice in his mind.

Oh, yes, he was afraid, all right, but of what? He kept remembering the look in Bodie's eyes just before he— Doyle shuddered in revulsion, pushing the rest of the memory away.

Despite his efforts, the images and their mocking accompaniment wouldn't go away. Why? Oh god why? He didn't understand. Even last night, angry as he was, he'd responded readily enough. Why had Bodie resorted to force?  And how could he? But he knew.  As far as Bodie was concerned, last night was another game. Cruel, the voice said.

But behind and underneath that voice was another, quieter one.  Got you off, didn't it?

He heard the fluttering of bird wings, watched as the sparrows sailed upwards becoming black dots against the sky. The wind stung his eyes. He had simply refused to face the truth. He was addicted to the games, as thrilled by them as Bodie was.

He pulled his knees up to his chin and bowed his head. Like any street-junkie, he had used every excuse in the book to keep himself hooked. And so help him, he didn't know if had the strength to give it up.

He looked up and he stared at the empty blue sky. A profound indifference lifted him with such purity that he sprang up and began to run, in order to have neither time nor breath to be more than an airy moment in which the morning comes to consciousness.

He ran for what seemed like hours, until he couldn't run any more, and he dropped to the ground in the sweet-smelling grass. Have to walk back to the car, he thought dreamily. Couldn't hurt to lie here for a bit, though. He closed his eyes and fell asleep in the caressing warmth of morning sunlight.

 

The sun hung low in the sky when he joined the London traffic, reddish glare bouncing off the boot of the car in front of him. Expecting to be stuck for a long while, he switched on the radio to pass the time, but the roadway was not as crowded as it usually was on a Saturday. He thought about stopping off for something to eat, decided against it He wanted to go home, to relax, lose himself in a book or the television and not think any more.

He went up the stairs, whistling one of the songs on the radio and let himself in.

Bodie was stretched out on the sofa, placidly reading a book. Sunlight slanted off one side of his face, lit his cheekbones, leaving his eyes in shadow.

He looked up when Doyle dropped his jacket, and smiled. "You've come back," he said. He put the book down and rose, came over to him.

"What the hell are you still doing here," Doyle demanded. He meant it to sound harsh, angry, but his voice shook.

Bodie reached out a hand and touched his cheek, leant forward and kissed him.  "You took my car," he said.

"Oh."

"'S all right." He slid his arms round Doyle's back as carefully as if he thought Doyle would break and pressed himself close,   murmuring   huskily,  "I've  missed you,

today." The unaccustomed tenderness was nearly his undoing. Safeheld in Bodie's arms he wanted nothing more than to cry out his grief and frustration at how impossible it all was. For a second he laid his head on Bodie's shoulder and pretended that things were the way they had been yesterday. His eyes was caught by his empty wineglass on the floor, and he was immediately furiously angry. He shoved Bodie away as hard as he could. "Don't touch me," he said. "Not ever."

He turned his back, as much to protect himself from the puzzled expression his words had caused, as to prevent Bodie from reading his own. "An' if you know what's good for you, you'll get out of here fast."

There was a long silence. He stepped up to the window to close the curtains against the growing darkness, seeing his shape reflected hazily in the glass, a bare outline. He heard soft footsteps and a second shape joined his. "I mean it, Bodie," he said quietly. He felt hands rest gently on his shoulders, Bodie's breath warm on his neck, and spun, fist at ready.

Bodie grabbed his wrist. "What's got into you?"

"Oh, come on, nobody's that thick."

"I should have known you'd act like this," Bodie said, for all the world like he was the injured party.

"Got it in one," Doyle snapped. He could feel Bodie's fingers digging into his tendons, but he refused to fight. "Now, get out."

"I'm not going anywhere," Bodie said, "Not until you explain."

"There's nothing to say. Not after what you did."

"After what I did?"

"Try rape, Bodie. Because that's what it was, plain and simple."

Bodie nodded. He released Doyle and turned away. "Bit melodramatic, isn't it? You seemed willing enough."

Doyle picked up the glass from the floor and threw it It hit the wall in a spray of fragments.  "I hate you."

Bodie flinched as if he'd been struck. "That's not what you said last night."

"People say a lot of things they don't mean." He glared pointedly at Bodie.

"I suppose they do," Bodie said.

"You should know," Doyle said. He was shouting again, but he didn't care. "You're not even fuckin' sorry, are you? As long as you get your kicks. All you can do is stand there and look at me like I'm the one who's crazy."

Bodie's expression was wholly unreadable. He looked away.  "Are you quite finished?"

"That's it, Bodie, I've had it." Doyle picked up his jacket and holster, found his keys.

"You can't go."

"Watch me."

"You live here!"

Doyle looked around the flat. And shrugged. "Never liked it anyway." He headed for the door.

Bodie blocked his path.  "I won't let you go."

Doyle considered the odds of winning a wrestling match, decided they were against him. "Fine. I can wait you out."

All the colour drained from Bodie's face. "I'm sorry," he said, "For all of it."

"It's too late for that."

Bodie's face grew more pale with anguish, and he knelt before Doyle, wrapping his arms around his knees, pressing his cheek into his thighs. "Please, I said I was sorry, didn't I?"

"No way," Doyle said. "I've had enough."

"It won't happen again, I swear. You have to believe me."

"I can't." The bright, cold rage that had carried him to the door crumbled to dusty despair and left him with no support. "I can't believe you. I trusted you and you—" He untangled himself from Bodie and sat heavily on the sofa, covering his face with his hands. He ground his fists into his eyes, welcomed the pain it caused.

He felt a touch on his shoulder. "Ray?"

He didn't respond. For the first time in his life, words seemed weak and foolish things.

Bodie was pacing around in front of him. "Talk to me, damn you, don't just sit there."

He huddled around himself. His heart ached no more than his stomach or his head. There was nothing he could say. It went too deep.

He heard a shatter of glass, followed by the splintering of wood and guessed that the table had been overturned, looked up in time to see Bodie put his fist through the wall. Landlord wouldn't like that, he thought idly, neither would Cowley when he got the bill.

Bodie drew back as though to hit the wall again, but his hand opened at the last minute and his palm slid uselessly down the wall.

"Why won't you talk to me?"

"Where's the point?"

Bodie was before him in a few steps, arm upraised. Doyle stared up at him, with the fearlessness of those who have nothing to lose. Slowly, Bodie's arm fell to his side, his expression one Doyle had never seen before.   It took him a few moments to identify it as defeat.

He was too numb to even feel surprise.

"You can't mean to pack me in, not really—"

Doyle met his gaze, unblinking.

Seeming to read his determination, Bodie sank to his knees, and buried his head in Doyle's lap, clutching at his thighs. "Don't be this way," he said, "Don't." His shoulders started to shake.

Doyle held to his detachment as long as he could bear it, until, frightened by the desperate sobbing sounds Bodie was making, he gripped Bodie's shoulders and shook him. "Why, Bodie?" he shook harder, willing him to look up.  "Tell me why!"

"Told you," muffled in his lap.

"You haven't told me a sodding thing!"

"Can't you ever understand?"

"No," said Doyle, "I don't. How can I?"

Another shuddering sob tore through Bodie's body, then another.

Doyle grabbed a handful of black hair at the base of his skull and tugged.

The dark tormented head in his lap lifted at last, and Bodie's stormy eyes met his. "I was mad, crazy with wanting you, and you've never wanted me that way, never. I thought I hoped I could get through to you somehow, make you understand, make you want me. But it's no use."

Under the assault of that passionate blue gaze, unfocussed by tears, Doyle foundered, released the hold he had on Bodie's head. "What are you tryin' to say, Bodie, you saying you love me?"

Bodie stared silently up at him, eyes dark, lashes glittering, luminous.

"Oh, for Christ's sake," Doyle shouted. "Just say it."

The sparkle went out of Bodie's eyes. "All right I'll say anything you like, I'll do whatever you want, but don't—don't leave." He bowed his head into his hands and was silent.

Motionless, folded into the humblest position the body can adopt, he yet was a shape of strength that had no likeness on an earth of mortal creatures.

Doyle reached out to stroke his hair.

"You forgive me?"

"I don't know. If you ever do anything like that again, I swear I'll kill you, whatever it takes."

Bodie laid his head in Doyle's lap again, and they stayed like that until far into the night.

 

 

 

**September**

 

 

XXVIII.

SURFACE CALM RETURNED, but Doyle learned that forgiveness was after all an elusive commodity. His anger festered under that surface, leaking out to poison the atmosphere, fuelled by his secret shame that no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't give Bodie up. All Bodie had to do was touch him, and he was off and running. It was pathetic, and he hated it.

He was ready to blow at a sideways look, a wrong word. But Bodie didn't give him the chance. He was unfailingly cheerful and took every abuse that Doyle hurled at him with bland equanimity.

There were days when Doyle didn't know who he hated more, Bodie or himself. Bodie's ruinous obsession with him had spoiled every chance of sweetness between them, but who was he to talk? His emotions were snared in a vicious spiral of anger, hurt and desire that tied him in knots.

There were days when Doyle watched Bodie covertly, trying to see through the bland, smiling mask, hoping that more than obsession lay behind Bodie's determined clinging. He saw everything but what he sought.

Then there were other days when he felt peaceful. He shouldn't take it all so seriously. Outwardly, at least everything was normal. Most of the agents had returned from outlying areas and once again the corridors bustled with laughter and talk. Cowley reinstated him and Bodie on the active list, and from the steady flow of assignments it began to look like CI5 was not obsolete after all.

Nor did Bodie show any inclination to ask dangerous questions. Not that he ever had. The perfect operative, that was Bodie, nothing ever got in the way of the job.

Doyle completed a set of bench presses, and began another. Last one.

He'd been spending most of his free time in the gym lately, preparing for the refresher course he suspected Cowley had up his sleeve. He had let himself go a bit over the summer and he sure as hell didn't want Jack or Dr. Ross poking around and asking a bunch of questions, which they would if his performance were down.

When he finished, he let his head drop back, trying to catch his breath. His heartbeat slowed, and he felt sweat drying chill on his chest. He opened his eyes to find Bodie staring down at him.

"Give you a lift home?" Bodie said.

Doyle didn't answer right away. He knew the casual offer masked an invitation, for discretion had become habit by now. Gone were the significant looks, the stolen kisses, the quick gropes on the stairwell.

He refused these invitations as often as not, having some faint idea he could wean himself from his compulsion, but Bodie looked so hopeful under his nonchalant demeanour, he could not bring himself to turn him down.

"Yeah, OK," he said and went off to shower and change back into street clothes.

On their way out he checked the briefing board for new postings, but there weren't any, only the old robbery case. Cowley had procured several photographs of the caretaker-turned-bandit. Doyle passed on. He had already memorised every detail of the man's face, and after all, either someone would spot the guy, or not, and there was nothing else he could do about it.

By unspoken agreement, they drove to his flat.

Doyle unlatched the door, and fumbled around for the light switch. Was startin' to get dark earlier and earlier, he ought to remember to leave the hall light on.

"Couple of lagers in the fridge," he said, kicking off his shoes.

Bodie shut the door behind them. "Later. C'm'ere." He pulled Doyle close and kissed him.

Doyle permitted it, but soon he got the twitchy sensation he often felt these days.

"Come on, kiss me back," Bodie said.

Doyle pushed him away. "I'm not in the mood for kissin'," he said and went to the kitchen to put on the kettle. He took off his jacket and tossed it on the table, got out the teapot and mugs. He hunted around for the tea, spotted it on the top shelf. More of Bodie's reorganising rampages. He was going to climb on the counter to get it, but Bodie was there, reaching for the gaily-flowered box easily and handing it to him.

"Thanks, mate," Doyle said, avoiding the wistful gaze he glimpsed.

"Any time," Bodie said. He brushed a playful finger down Doyle's nose. "What are you in the mood for, then?"

"Nothing, actually," Doyle said. "I'm knackered." And that was mainly true, he couldn't help it if sometimes he didn't want Bodie to touch him. The kettle clicked off and he poured the boiling water into the teapot.

"Where's the lid?" Bodie asked.

"Lost it," Doyle told him.

In silence, they watched steam cloud over the mouth.

After a few minutes, Doyle filled the cups. "Sugar's over there," he said. He strolled into the sitting-room and sat on the sofa. He put his feet up on the hassock and closed his eyes.

Bodie's weight settled next to him.

They were quiet again, and warmed by the tea, Doyle started to relax.  He felt an arm slide around his back.

He suppressed the urge to flinch away, but Bodie felt it anyway.

"For chrissakes—" He jumped up off the sofa.

"Careful," Doyle snapped, "You'll make me spill my tea."

"I don't care about your bloody tea," Bodie shouted, "I can't stand this, you bein' cold like this all the time."

Doyle stared up at him over the rim of his mug. The taut, white face and brilliant eyes, the black brows furiously knitted, the body electric with tension, flared into an invisible aura of menace that made Doyle shiver.

"I'm sorry," he said, setting mug on the table with a little ceramic rattle. "You hurt me, Bodie, it's not something you get over just like that." He went to stand up, but Bodie grabbed his shoulders.

"All right," Bodie said. His eyes were twin embers, smouldering with something stronger than anger, deeper than pain. "Then I'll go on hurting you," and he crushed Doyle's mouth under his, stealing the breath from him, then slid his hand between their tight-pressed bodies and covered the soft bulge of his genitals.

To his disgust, Doyle felt his cock lift and swell to the touch, gentle massage continuing until he was fully hard. Against his will, his hips arched to press himself deeper into Bodie's palm.

"You're so hot," Bodie murmured, "Burning through your clothes."

Bodie drew the zip down and crept his hand inside to enclose him, "So hot," silky lips moving against Doyle's cheek, "And hard," freeing Doyle's cock from the fabric and stroking it. With his other hand he slid the jeans off Doyle's hips. "Tell me again you don't want it."

Doyle opened his mouth to say exactly that when he felt Bodie's hand digging into the muscles of his arse, and a finger slid into the cleft, rimming him.

He bit his lip. The shame of his arousal squeezed his eyes shut, but his legs shifted slightly to allow Bodie's hand greater access.

"That's it, open up for me," Bodie said in his ear, and the finger pressed inside him.    His other hand brushed Doyle's cock. "Admit it, you want it as bad as I do," he whispered, "You're hard as a steel."

"I want it," Doyle said dully.

He stepped out of his jeans and carried them as he followed Bodie into the bedroom. He stood quietly as Bodie took off his shirt, offering neither help nor resistance, an idle corner of his mind commenting that it was strange to see Bodie dump his own clothes in a pile when he had always taken such pains with them before.

Then Bodie's arms were around him, tugging him down on the bed, his mouth too sweet to bear, his hands exploring Doyle's body with a stately grace and gentleness that made Doyle stretch and sigh against him. But in Bodie's skilful dominance there was a despair, as if he were clutching at life itself, and feeling that, Doyle let his fears be soothed away. He curved himself into the embrace and took command of the kiss.

"That's better," Bodie said breathlessly, and rolled onto his back, pulling Doyle with him. He could feel Bodie's erection nestle between his buttocks, patient but demanding. "But not quite good enough." He settled Doyle's legs to either side of his chest. "Well, I'm waiting."

Doyle closed his eyes. So this was how it was going to be, after all. Not again. "No."

"You can't say no."

"No," Doyle said.

Bodie held his hips, and watched him, unblinking. "I won't force you. But then, I don't have to, do I?"

In an agony of self-loathing, Doyle surrendered to his own desire and in one quick movement, impaled himself.

The pain and pleasure of it demolished him, his head drooped to his chest and he bent forward to steady himself on Bodie's shoulders.

He waited there, poised for the first thrust, but it never came.

"Prove to me how much you want it, Ray," Bodie said softly.   "Prove it to yourself."

Doyle flexed his thighs and with great effort lifted himself to his knees, and slid back down, then again, withdrawing and filling himself over and over, staring mutely at Bodie, helplessly caught by his own searing pleasure in this and humiliated at his utter lack of self-control. He could see Bodie's face held rigid with the strain of holding back; and took some small satisfaction in that; increased the tempo of his movement in the hope that Bodie would lose his own iron control.

Bodie only smiled. "Now finish it," taking Doyle's hand from his arm and pressing it onto Doyle's cock, keeping it there until Doyle began to stroke himself.  His humiliation was complete.

He threw his head back and gave himself over to sensation, twisting and turning to push Bodie further inside him, but could no longer get enough leverage. "For godsakes, help me, Bodie—"

And benevolent in his triumph, Bodie used his grip on Doyle's hips to support him. ''You're so damn beautiful," he whispered. "I could watch you forever."

Doyle shook his head. Despite the sweet anguish licking his body, he wanted nothing more than to get it over with as fast as possible.

A sharp coil of anger cut into him with each thrust, anger and betrayal. "Come on, Bodie," he taunted, "Don't just lie there, don't fancy fucking a corpse, I don't."

That hit home, Bodie's features flushed and went white in the space of two seconds, his mouth set in a grim line.

Doyle arched his back in deliberate provocation.

Bodie half-sat up and dragged Doyle to him, buried his face in Doyle's neck. "Don't," he said, his breath so hot it scorched the skin. "Please don't," and thrust up so suddenly Doyle nearly fell backwards.

"Who wants who?" Doyle inquired in a venomous whisper.

Bodie took Doyle by the throat and forced his head back, glaring up, so Doyle wriggled against him. Bodie's head slammed into Doyle's chest and with one powerful heave he was coming.

Doyle slid off him and curled on his side, back to Bodie. He ignored the disappointed throbbing of his cock. That would go away in time.

He felt Bodie settle next to him, felt a tentative hand creep across his waist. "Ray?"

"Yeah?"

"You're pissed off."

"He's sharp as razor."

The silence that followed lasted so long Doyle was nearly asleep, then "I'm sorry," Bodie said, low and strained.

"Sorry?  For what?"

"I'm sorry," Bodie began.

"Two apologies in one night, must be some kind of record," Doyle said.

Bodie sighed. "I'm sorry," he said again with thinly veiled impatience, "Look, what the hell do you want me to tell you?"

"I don't know any more," Doyle said, and the darkness seemed to close in on him, "More than anything, I wanted you to tell me you loved me. And mean it."

There  was  swift  rustling  sound,  as  of a violent movement abruptly restrained. "We can't always have what we want," Bodie said.

"Doesn't matter anyway," Doyle said. "I want out, Bodie."

His shoulders were seized in a bruising grip and he was pushed onto his back. Bodie's mouth was warm on his, tongue softly stroking the inside of his lip. Doyle let his lips be parted, let his body respond to Bodie's caresses, but his mind wandered off to some distant land of shade-trees and sunlight.

The hands stilled. "You can't do this to me," Bodie said.

Doyle opened his eyes, then, and looked at him.

"You really don't want it," Bodie said flatly.

"I told you what I want."

Bodie turned on his back. He flung his forearm across his face. "Well, I don't want to hear any more," his voice muffled by his arm.

"Tough," Doyle said. "You're going to hear it." He sat up and threw the covers to the floor. He grabbed Bodie's arm and yanked it away from his face.

Wide-startled blue eyes stared up at him.

"I would have done anything for you, given you whatever you wanted, you crazy bastard. If you had let me, I would have loved you more than my life, Bodie, and to hell with CI5 and Cowley and the rest of the world. Might not be much, but it's all I've got." His breath was coming in ragged pants and his vision was blurring, but he didn't care. His pride was gone, his shame was gone, submerged in the greater loss of his dreams. "Now maybe that doesn't mean a thing to you, but it meant everything to me, everything—" He broke off as his voice failed him. Bodie was looking at him like he had never seen him before.

"That a fact," he drawled, and his voice, too, trembled over the words.

"Yeah, that's a fact," Doyle snarled, "I'd die for you, wouldn't I? But it's too late now," he went on, merciless. "You wrecked it with all your bloody games."

Bodie blinked twice, was silent for a long time. Then his lids came down, leaving his face a blank. "I'd kill for you," he said.

"What?"

Bodie's eyes snapped open. He put his hands on Doyle's shoulders and shoved him away. He got up and walked to the other end of the room, and stood there, sides heaving, fists clenched.  "In fact, I have done."

"You have done...you have done what?" Doyle asked, but there was a sliver of apprehension scraping up his spine that said he didn't want to know. "Oh, Christ. You killed Lane, didn't you?"

Bodie did not move at first, only watched Doyle with a hopeless expression. Then he shrugged. "He implicated you in the bank robberies. Didn't take much to figure out what would happen if he spread the word. You'd have been suspended, and CI5 would have been under investigation for corruption." Bodie's eyes lit with a reminiscent gleam, and his face softened into a tender smile. "Couldn't have that, now could we?"

"You murdered this guy so I wouldn't be implicated—" Doyle got to his feet, and promptly sat back down, slowly, because he felt lightheaded. "Oh, Jesus. If Cowley finds out—"

"Don't worry."

"I don't believe it. Didn't it occur to you he might be telling the truth, maybe I was involved?" reeling off the questions automatically while he forced order on his mind.

Bodie glanced at him like he'd gone round the bend. "Of course not; I know you."

"Then why?"

"Showed me a notebook he'd snatched and there was your name, in black-and-white." Bodie frowned. "He had photos, photos of us."

"What d'you mean photos of us."

"Of us, Ray, goin' into your flat together, and a few others. You know. After everything that happened, you would have been out on your arse, and I couldn't risk it."

Doyle kept staring at him, shock and horror hovering on the edge of his mind. He fought them off and tried to think.

Bodie came and knelt beside him. "I knew you wouldn't like it," he said, "But I did it for you." He gazed up at Doyle defiantly, but his mouth twitched a little. "I didn't think you would understand."

Doyle was afraid he understood only too well.

Bodie's eyes misted over and he smiled sweetly at Doyle. "Poor Lane. Should have been on the up and up with me in the first place. He might still be alive." He laid his cheek on Doyle's knee like a child saying a bedtime prayer.

As if watching a silent film, Doyle saw Bodie confronting Lane, saw him come to the decision in the flick of an eyelash. He saw Bodie draw his gun with deceptive casualness and calmly pull the trigger at point blank range, saw him calmly conceal the evidence of his visit, go home and change clothes, then calmly take the weapon and toss it in the Thames, all without the slightest compunction, all in the absolute assurance of his right to destroy anything that dared to endanger what was his.

"Oh, my god, oh my god. How could you?"

Bodie watched him with silent, compassionate gaze. "Fortunes of war and all that."

"War. This isn't a war."

"Yes, it is, Doyle. Them against us. Whether Lane realised it or not, he was part of the conspiracy to get at CI5. Should have chosen his associates more carefully."

Bodie's cold-bloodedness shocked him into clarity like a bucket of ice poured over his head. This—it went beyond any excusing. And he, he had condoned it. Preoccupied with himself, he had overlooked the signs, explained away the little anomalies, excused the excesses of violence as part of the job. But no longer.

He rose from the bed and pulled on his jeans. "Out," he said.

Bodie looked up. "What?"

"Get dressed, you're leaving."

"You don't mean that."

"I do mean it, Bodie. Now."

As if he sensed the truth of this, Bodie nodded thoughtfully. "Won't you be lonely at night, then?" he asked as buttoned his jacket.

Doyle didn't even have to think about it. "Yeah."

"Oh," was Bodie's only reply. He pulled his keys from his pocket and walked to the door.

Doyle followed him. To make sure he left, he told himself.

Bodie opened the door. "Sure you don't want to change your mind?"

Hands in pockets, head tilted to one side, he looked all at once oddly vulnerable, the sweet symmetry of his features gently illuminated by the lamplight, the black-lashed blue eyes staring steadily into his own, colour deepened by the shadows. Doyle thought he had never seemed so beautiful.

Almost he relented, until Bodie smiled, that maddeningly arrogant smile.

Doyle hardened his heart. "It's finished, Bodie. Over, finito, ended."

He fortified himself against another onslaught, but it never came.

"OK," Bodie said.

"OK? Just like that?"

"Course. Knew it was too good to be true, didn't I?"

The simple words touched Doyle more than any protest could ever have done, but some of Bodie's own callousness must have rubbed off on him, because he watched uncaring as the door shut behind him, then sprawled out on the sofa.   He stared at the ceiling for hours after Bodie left.

Now that it was done, the doubts returned.  He was so tired he felt like dying, but at the same time he couldn't sleep, leaving him no respite from the aching loneliness that set in as soon as Bodie was gone.

 

 

XXIX.

 

DOYLE WAS TENSE all the next day, and the next, waiting for Bodie to make some kind of trouble, but nothing happened. Amazing how life went on all around him, indifferent to his suffering. Cold, heartless. Like Bodie. His fear that seeing Bodie every day would weaken his resolve never materialised. They slipped back into something resembling their previous routine with an ease that ought to have been surprising, but Doyle was not surprised. Nothing ever changed, did it? Bodie was the same as he had always been—a stranger, Doyle thought bitterly. He wished—no, he mustn't think about what he wished. That was all gone.

Ray Doyle had been a street tough, lived in an artist's ghetto, walked the worst beat in the city of London, and spent twelve years as a CI5 agent, regularly up against terrorism and corruption. He had seen more misery, more horror than a dozen war veterans put together. But at odd intervals, when he was sure no one was watching, he would bow his head and weep silently into his hands.

 

As the weeks went by the ache lessened and he began to see it all in a clearer perspective, convincing himself that he had done the right thing. A trance-like calm descended on him, carrying him through his work with mechanical precision, enveloping his nights with dreamy languor.

He concentrated on the job with renewed interest. It was after all important that men like him stood between the beauty of the world and the evil that would spoil it.

 

"A word with you, Doyle."

On his way to the Ops room, Doyle glanced back to see Cowley standing in the doorway of his office. "Sir."

Cowley gestured him inside and closed the door and began to unbutton his overcoat. Doyle propped himself against the file cabinet and crossed his arms.

"Special Branch have completed their security check and I'm happy to say your clearance was renewed."

"No reason it shouldn't have been."

"I see."

Doyle watched Cowley hang his coat in the cupboard and walk around his desk, obviously digesting the implications. "That being so, I'm going to close our file on Harris." He leant back in the chair, radiating benign approval.  "You've done well."

Doyle received this praise with the cool detachment he brought to everything now. Cowley could afford to be magnanimous. After all, the case had been wrapped up with typical CI5 efficiency, no splashy headlines, simply a half a dozen or so resignations from public offices and enough information on street criminals to keep the Met busy making arrests for months. Another coup for Cowley's commandos. With its reputation redeemed past all expectation, CI5's existence was secure.

"What about Lane?"

"Lane's murder will remain on the books, but the salient fact is that you and CI5 are clear."

If only he knew, thought Doyle. Grim, tight-lipped lest the truth escape him, he asked, "And Bodie?"

"He's cleared as well."

Cowley didn't know. He felt abruptly lightheaded as he realised Bodie had got away with it.

Somewhere along the line he had come to think of Cowley as omniscient, had expected him to work it out, and even somehow make things all right; then he got a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach—perhaps the old man suspected and was turning a blind eye for the good of CI5.

"Are you with me, 4/5?"

He should give Cowley the whole story.

He had to. He could not lay the remains of his conscience on the altar of love, or whatever corrupt obsession passed for love. And yet, and yet. Wavering, feeling Cowley's gaze upon him, imagining the consequences—No. The word slammed him in the chest. He couldn't do it, no matter his honour, his ideals, he couldn't turn Bodie in. He stared helplessly at Cowley and the moment of his final damnation passed away.

"As to the bank job, Pemberton was spotted in Leeds last week, and I've no doubt he'll be picked up soon. And when he's found, we may have our killer."

Still stunned by his own betrayal, Doyle forced his lips to move. "Was that all, sir?"

Cowley directed a speculative glance at him. "I expect so, 4/5. Report to me tomorrow morning for your new assignment."

Doyle nodded and escaped. 

He had believed Cowley's wisdom and understanding would save him, had believed he and Bodie together could transcend this life they led, had believed in himself and his fundamental integrity.   Very well, he would believe in nothing.

After that it was easier.

 

_...to embrace the stone..._

__

 

 

He came to see himself as the survivor of a long battle, and to all appearances his ability to cope with the worst that the world could chuck at him stood intact.

Most days he went home and pulled out his sketch pad, or settled down with a book, content to have found a sort of peace again, until one afternoon he found himself stirring with the old restlessness.

He hunted for his address book, turning over stacks of accumulated papers, dumping the contents of drawers, but in vain, finally giving it up, and sat lost in thought. A dozen faces flashed through his mind, one catching, a hazy memory of a bar, and a girl. Grimly, he tracked it down to the night he had gone to Bodie's flat and discovered that Bodie was not as loyal as he claimed, and remembered her name. Diane, wasn't it? And she had told him where she worked.

He was waiting for her among the throng of people flooding the streets at five o'clock, unsure of what he would do when he saw her, but she recognised him immediately. "Ray!  Ray Doyle, isn't it?"

He took her hands in his, in mute gratitude that she should have thus saved him the agony of having to remind her how they had met. "Yeah. How have you been?"

Haltingly, he confessed his lies, trying to explain the demands of his job without telling her exactly what it entailed. She nodded gravely throughout, seeming to accept, and asked no further questions. And he was grateful for that too. He watched her across the table in the restaurant he'd chosen for them. She was as sweetly naive as he remembered, and all evening he basked in the glow of reflected innocence, feeling cleansed and refreshed and immensely relieved.

Later, he brought her back to his flat, and made love to her, fiercely tender, wanting nothing more than to protect and preserve that innocence and purity.

It wasn't until the moment of climax, when he saw another face, looked into darker eyes, that he knew beyond any redemption that no sensation, no emotion, no reason would ever purge Bodie from his heart.

After that he was alone.

He slept restlessly, when he could sleep, dreaming of a stone shape encasing him. As he moved to embrace the stone in return he found it was warm and alive and he was licking an endless flow of tears from brilliant blue eyes, then kissing the lids closed as the lower half of their bodies moved in unison.

Other nights he woke shaking from unremembered blood-smeared nightmares, all the more terrifying for their haziness. Some days he would be ready to grant his forgiveness, the next Bodie would smirk at him as if he knew and Doyle was as coldly angry as he had ever been. His world shrunk to work and his flat.

He found it rather amusing that he could perform his duties with no feeling whatsoever, one way or the other. The last ember of his idealism had gone out when he didn't turn Bodie in, and so each action had exactly the importance of the actions preceding and following.

And he never gave himself more than a perfunctory glance in the mirror. He would not find himself there. The only mirror he had ever wanted was in Bodie's eyes, and they were always shuttered now, his face grown thin and pinched around the nostrils.

Occasionally Doyle wondered if any of it had been real. Not very often, though. The awareness of all that had been whispered along the unspoken lines of communication they used every day to function as a single unit on the job.

But in the way of men who have subjugated their emotions to the requirements of their profession, they never spoke of it.

Thus conversation ran to work, motors, sports, even political issues, all the old subjects, except of course, girls; everything but what mattered most; safe, practical topics that would not rip open the hearts men keep secret even from themselves.

So summer faded into autumn, the leaves turned and fell, bringing the first signs of winter.

 

 

**November**

 

XXX.

 

THE CALL had only come in an hour ago, but the house looked as if no one had lived there for weeks, windows boarded up, grass grown above ankle height, postbox overflowing.

Nestled among a grove of trees in a outlying area of town, it dominated the end of the street. Not the ideal place to go to ground, in Doyle's opinion. One of the few houses on the street, neighbours would be sure to notice anything unusual; in fact, one of them probably made the report CI5's wire had picked up. And the nearest shops were a good fifteen minutes away; he and Bodie passed them on the way out here; hard to get supplies and food without being noticed. He did not really expect to find anything; particularly not the elusive bank robber he had chased for months; but it had to be checked on.

Bodie parked the car down the street and they got out.

"Want to toss for who goes inside?" Bodie asked as they approached the gate in the hedgerow.

"Nah, c'n see you're rarin' to go, mate," Doyle said, "You can.  Save you the trouble of cheatin'."

Bodie's eyebrows arched in mock-outrage. "I only cheat in a good cause," he said with lofty dignity.

Doyle grinned at him.

Instead of smiling back, Bodie hesitated, causing a subtle shift in the atmosphere. "Any case, I've been known to lose."

The undercurrent of tension sprang like a spark between them, rekindling the hurtful longing, choking his throat. "Bodie—"

Bodie stared at him, hope lighting his eyes.

Doyle looked away. "Go on, hop to it," he said, opening the low iron gate.

He felt Bodie close behind him, like days before.

"Doyle?"

"Yeah?"

"Still beautiful, mate."

It shattered him. He looked up, but Bodie was already loping away towards the sturdy wooden fence that guarded the back of the house.

What was the saying, oh yeah, 'cops don't cry' well, this one wanted to.   He crouched near the hedge, held his gun trained on Bodie to cover his stealthy foray into the backyard. He watched him climb the fence, admiring the absurd grace with which he managed an inherently clumsy action.

His heart lurched and his carefully dampened feelings burst from their shroud; and he knew that without Bodie, he was finished. He took a deep breath, crushed the deadly rush of sentiment. No time for that now.

Bodie dived into a shadowed doorway and Doyle lost sight of him.

Five minutes went by. Then five more. Doyle glanced down the street. Theirs was the only car to be seen, a silver gleam in the sunlight.

What the hell was taking Bodie so long?

Probably amusing himself at Doyle's expense, playing hide and seek. No, those days were past.

Doyle walked all the way around the house. Nothing. A few broken branches on a dead lilac bush, signs of Bodie's passing. The back door was standing open. He holstered his gun, and stepped through the door.

His eyes adjusted quickly to the dim light. The room was empty. A soot-darkened fireplace cowered in the corner, the floor was thick with undisturbed dust, except for his own footprints.

Wait a minute, Bodie hadn't gone anywhere near those bushes—

He heard the whisper of footsteps on gravel outside. He spun, drawing his gun as he did. Too late for a clear shot. A man was waiting, his weapon brought up to bear on Doyle, panic visible in his stance.

Time seemed to stretch itself out into endless consecutive fragments. It was him, Pemberton— murderer, his mind shouted—Doyle recognised him instantly. He knew he should call out, order him to drop his gun, but his throat was dry and no sound emerged. Come on, he thought, the guy's a nutter responsible for the deaths of so many innocent people—but not as many as you, his conscience mocked—the other man thumbed the safety on his gun—odd how the shadows parted at the door just enough for him to see the weapon with brilliant clarity—Still Doyle hesitated, suddenly uncaring if the man escaped, unable to bring himself to squeeze the trigger.

The man smiled and nodded, as if he understood— how could he—and fired.

Doyle braced himself for the impact, but it never came. With a shout of "Look out!" Bodie hurtled out of the shadows and knocked Doyle to the ground.

Another shot cracked close by, then another, and there was a ringing in his ears as he saw the man crumple like a paper doll.

He looked around for Bodie, spotted his form sprawled about ten feet away. Unconcerned, he rolled to his feet, walked over to the man and looked down into his eyes. Dead. He pumped a few rounds into the corpse to be sure.

Bodie hadn't moved. Doyle went over and nudged him with his boot.  "Come on, Bodie, you can't fool me."

No answer. He scooted over to the still figure and dropped to one knee and shook him, trying to damp a rising dread.

"Come on, Bodie. This is no time for jokes, I'm telling you, stop playing around—"

His voice cut off as his searching fingers found the cause of Bodie's silence. He wondered how he missed it. It was a small puncture, but it shone like a bright red ruby on the black leather, and as he watched, blood welled up against his hand in rhythmic bursts.

Rhythm, heartbeat, how many times had he held his head just so, against Bodie's heart, listening to its steady patient drumming?

Heartbeat. He was alive.

"Bodie!" With all the anguished force of emotion suddenly at his command, he willed Bodie to open his eyes.

"C'mon, Bodie, look at me, damn you!"

Bodie's eyelids lifted lazily. "Keep your shirt on, will you?"

Doyle yanked his scarf from his neck, wadded it up and pressed against the bullet hole in a vain effort to slow the bleeding. He ripped his r/t from his pocket and called in. He explained the situation in a few terse words, and gave their location.

"Wastin' your time, angelfish."

"You hang on till the ambulance gets here," Doyle said.

The dark head gave slight shake. "Nah. Not going to make it this time. C'n feel it."

Doyle probed the wound, and realised it was true. The bloody rhythm gushing into his hand was arterial blood, from somewhere close to the heart.

The powerful inrush of adrenalin that they both relied on to keep them alert and therefore alive in a dangerous job now turned against him, keeping his body from going into protective shock, allowing the strong, steady heart to beat foolishly on, pumping his life inexorably into Doyle's waiting hands.  Bodie's own strength was killing him.

"Oh, god, Bodie, I'm sorry—"

"Don't start the guilt complex,  Doyle, not now."

Doyle couldn't answer, words choking in his throat. Bodie was dying and it was his fault.  Careless—

"Anyway in heaven already," Bodie went on.   "May not believe in God, but angels, that's another story. Lookin' at one now, aren't I?"

Doyle swallowed the depth-dark sobs that threatened to engulf him.

His eyes traced the outlines of the mouth he knew so well. Without being aware he was going to, he bent and kissed it.

Bodie's lips trembled under his. "Glad you changed your mind," he said breathlessly, "before I died."

"You're not going to die."

"Yes, I am. 'S ok, wanted to die like this, for you."

"No, Bodie. You can't die. I won't let you," Doyle said reasonably, as if it were merely a matter of making Bodie see it his way.

"Don't think you have any say about it, sunshine."

"No," Doyle said. "No."

"'S matter? It's no tragedy, Ray."

"What happened to the survival instinct, then?"

"Yeah, living. Now 's over. Part of the game."

"You and your bloody games." Carefully, so as not to move his body, Doyle slid an arm under his shoulders and cradled his head in his lap.

"Hit me head," Bodie grumbled.  "Hurts."

Blood was a steady pouring now from the hole in his chest, soaking the heavy fabric, beginning to drip onto the concrete, where it pooled like a flower. Doyle trailed his fingers in it.

Blood is the life. He'd read that couldn't remember where. Where was the bloody ambulance? His mind chattered on and on, bloody rose of vengeance I am the way and the truth and the life ashes to ashes this gives life to thee

"Ray?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you."

Doyle blinked.

"Meant to tell you—was lyin' to you, that time. Always loved you."

"What?"

"Can't use it against me now," Bodie said, and his lips quivered into a shadowy smirk. "But I thought thought you'd like to hear it."

"Aww, Bodie, damn you—"

"Yeah, well." With obvious effort, Bodie raised his fingers to Doyle's cheek. "Wanted you to know—did everything I could think of, but you never—" He closed his eyes.

Doyle watched the tell-tale trickle of blood appear at the corner of his mouth. He felt he was seeing Bodie for the first time, and for the first time, understood him.

He'd had Bodie all wrong. He was as elemental as air and wind and fire, transcending mere mortality. Cruel, yes, and cold and strong, but that was the way of elemental things. You didn't blame the fire for the burns on your hand.

He covered Bodie's hand with his own and pressed it to his cheek, harder and harder, as though to dam the impending flood of tears. "Bodie, you—why didn't you just tell me? Why?"

Bodie opened his eyes for the last time and smiled again, a fierce, exultant smile. "I'm sorry," he said, "I tried, I really tried, but I ran out of words."

And with a deep sighing breath he died.

Just like that.

Doyle stared into sightless eyes. "You can't do this to me," he said. "Bodie—"

He didn't know how long he sat there, holding a cold hand tightly in his own. Then life and feeling flowed back into him, and his thoughts surged with a thousand incoherent images, moulded themselves eventually into two words.

Too late.

In the dazed dream-like knowledge of Bodie's death, he looked around the abandoned house, seemed to hear echoes of laughter, of children playing and dogs barking, imagined he saw a lamp glowing in the corner, and a fire crackling in the charred grate.

He couldn't believe Bodie was dead, the strong body defeated, the arrogant smile stilled, the blue eyes staring into nothing forever. Any second now, he would sit up, his eyes would glint with lazy amusement at Doyle's credulity, he could almost hear the sweet, sombre voice—

'I did it for you'

The images faded. The dream became a nightmare and then he woke.

All these years, he'd depended on Bodie's diamond-cruel vision of wrong and right to wash away his guilts, used him as a living shield to protect him in the dark, shapeless land of doubts, but he'd never known until now when Bodie was gone and there was nothing between him and the darkness.

He slid his gun from the holster and studied the blued metal with formal dispassion for a long time, then laid it aside.

Gently, as if not to disturb a sleeping child, he uncurled Bodie's fingers from around his gun, warm from being fired, and held it in hands that did not quite tremble.

Gently, though it could not possibly matter, he closed the beautiful eyes and gazed at the body of the only one who had ever really loved him.

The black lashes accentuated the unnatural pallor of his skin. He looked more than ever made of stone, beyond trivial distinctions between life and death, sculptured beauty eternally frozen and elevated to lithic grandeur.

So now it was all over. All he felt now was a heavy dullness that it should be this way.

He felt inside Bodie's pocket for spare ammunition and reloaded the empty chambers, then saw the grip was smeared with blood—it was all over his hand. He wiped his hand savagely across his trousers. He was glad Bodie was dead, glad it was all over, glad to be rid of the black-hearted bastard.

But the well-worn ritual of outrage and righteousness failed him, too. Without the support of darkness, light collapsed and folded in on itself.

He slammed the cylinder into firing position and flipped the gun around so he could see down the muzzle, wondering idly what Cowley and the rest of the mob would say when they found his corpse sprawled across Bodie's. Lurid speculations about their relationship no doubt, attempts to pigeonhole him as a depressive, trotting out the old saw that he was overcome by remorse at causing Bodie's death.

But they would never know the truth, of that he was certain. Not that he cared.

He smiled mistily down at Bodie, ready at last to follow him into the dark, his eyes clear, his features serene and shining with the cool light of eternity.

He pressed back on the hammer until it clicked.

For Doyle, alone now with his conscience, and with his memories, understood at last that he could not face life without the terrible purity of the cold, the faithless, the black of heart.

 

_Every angel is terrible._

January 1996


End file.
